THESE  THOUGHTS  RUSHED  THROUGH  HIS  MIND  AND  SMOTE 

HIM  IJKE  A  LARIAT.  " — Page  /J. 


JUAN   PICO 


BY 


WILL  R.  HALPIN 

AUTHOR  OF  « Two  MEN  IN  THE  WEST,"  ETC. 


NEW  YORK 
ROBERT  LEWIS  WEED  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


Copyrighted,  1899,  by 

ROBERT  LEWIS  WEED  COMPANY 

(This  book  is  also  copyrighted  in  England.) 


Co  mi?  /ifcctbcr 

Whose  gentle  voice  is  forever  hushed  in  the  sleep 
called  death,  this  book  is  dedicated  in  loving  remem 
brance. 

WILL  R.  HALPIN. 


ONE 

"  Weak  and  irresolute  is  man, 

The  purpose  of  to-day, 
Woven  with  pains  into  his  plan, 

To-morrow  rends  away." 

—WILLIAM  COWPER. 

IT  is  late  in  the  afternoon  of  a  short  Decem 
ber  day.  The  rapidly  leveling  sun  casts  a  ruby 
glow  over  the  summits  of  the  San  Bernardino 
mountains.  Against  a  cloudless  sky  the  rug 
ged  peaks  look  like  giant  cameos  carved  by 
the  hand  of  Time,  and  thrust  upward  into  the 
pure  sapphire  heaven,  deepen  its  tone  of  azure. 

Over  the  dusty  road  that  stretches  between 
San  Gabriel  and  Los  Angeles,  twilight  is  soon 
to  fall.  Thrown  up  by  the  wayside,  the  Mecca 
for  all  travelers  and  ranchmen  from  San  Diego 
to  San  Francisco,  is  a  low  adobe  saloon.  Here, 
for  fifty  years  gambling  has  openly  been  car- 


6  JUAN  PICO 

ried  on,  and  within  its  walls  many  crimes  have 
been  committed. 

The  present  owner,  Andre  d'Alliscon,  is  a 
Mexican  of  the  most  degraded  type.  Built 
like  a  giant,  his  limbs  are  powerful  and  strong, 
and  his  head  is  large  and  covered  with  a  thick 
mat  of  tangled  hair.  His  eyes  are  black  and 
glassy ;  and  across  his  left  cheek  is  a  jagged  Z 
shaped  scar  always  pulsating  as  if  with  anger. 
"Walking  away  from  a  group  of  hangers-on 
about  the  place,  Andre  has  thrown  himself 
on  a  mat  near  the  door  and  is  gossiping 
with  a  couple  of  ranchmen  leaning  against  the 
bar. 

Juan  Pico  sitting  on  the  west  side  of  the 
house  could  now  and  then  catch  parts  of  the 
half -Spanish,  half -English  conversation,  al 
though  he  understood  the  latter  with  some 
difficulty.  Like  his  father,  Juan  was  more 
Spanish  than  Mexican,  and  as  the  San  Gabriel 
people  said,  "  more  Mexican  than  fool." 

Disturbed  by  the  voices  of  the  men  collected 
in  and  about  the  saloon,  Juan  plunges  his 
hands  deeper  into  his  pockets  and  pulls  his 
sombrero  well  down  over  his  closed  eyes,  at 


JUAN  PICO  7 

the  same  time,  moving  his  head  uneasily 
against  the  rough  adobe  wall.  Shadows  of 
the  bright  red  poincetti  leaves  fall  in  curiously 
formed  shapes  on  his  well-worn  corduroy 
clothes.  Only  the  lower  part  of  his  face  is 
visible — he  has  a  firm  and  heavy  jaw,  a  large 
and  sinewy  mouth,  the  thick  sensual  lips  of 
which  seem  still  drenched  with  wine.  His 
large,  muscular  hands,  brown  and  hairy,  fall 
languidly  on  either  side  of  his  massive  legs. 
The  ends  of  his  fingers  and  thumbs  are  discol 
ored  by  the  constant  use  of  cigarettes,  and 
when  he  holds  his  hands  up  against  the  light, 
the  knotted  joints  of  the  fingers  show  chinks 
between  them. 

In  monotonous  rise  and  fall  the  rough  voices 
continue  to  grate  on  Juan's  ear  and  he 
slightly  shifts  his  position,  stretches  himself 
and  rolls  the  half-smoked  cigarette  between 
his  lips.  Pushing  his  hat  to  the  back  of  his 
head  he  displays  his  full  face,  the  first  sight  of 
which  proclaims  him  to  be  a  Mexican  with  an 
ancestral  trace  of  Indian.  His  eyes,  large, 
limpid  and  black,  are  capable  of  any  variation 
of  expression,  and  his  forehead  would  have 


8  JUAN  PICO 

been  the  pride  of  a  man  of  culture  and  refine 
ment.  His  nose,  betraying  his  active  adven 
turous  temperament,  is  large  and  in  harmony 
with  the  general  contour  of  his  face. 

Nervously  fingering  his  small,  black  mus 
tache,  he  again  closes  his  eyes,  drops  his  hands 
beside  him  and  remains  motionless.  But  he  is 
not  asleep,  nor  is  he  in  the  drunken  stupor  so 
often  indulged  in  by  Mexicans  and  Indians  on 
pleasant  afternoons.  Presently,  as  if  calculat 
ing,  his  lips  move,  he  sits  upright,  throws  his 
cigarette  into  a  bank  of  wild  nasturtiums  and 
ejaculates : 

"  Ten  thousand  sheep  lost  on  the  turn  of  a 
card ! " 

With  a  preparatory  shake  of  the  shoulders 
he  was  rising  to  his  feet  when  he  heard  his 
name  mentioned,  and  sinking  back  on  the 
bench  he  listened  to  the  conversation  which 
had  gradually  become  more  and  more  ani 
mated. 

"My  Senora  comes  running  into  the  room 
and  says,  Tor  the  love  of  the  Holy  Yirgin, 
Andre,  go  in  and  stop  him,  he's  stark  raven' 
mad,  and  if  the  Indian  in  him  gets  up,  there'll 


JUAN  PICO  9 

be  murder  here.  The  bar'll  be  closed  and  us 
turned  out  to  walk  all  the  way  to  Los  Angeles.' 
I  just  says  to  her,  *  Oh,  you  go  along  about 
your  business,  men  is  men,  gamblen'  is  as  fair 
and  square  a  way  of  getten'  a  liven'  as  any- 
then'  else.' " 

The  two  men  at  the  bar  bought  a  bottle  of 
Muscat  wine  and  sat  down  at  a  table  near 
Andre  whose  ideas  seemed  to  interest  them. 
Juan  half  rose. 

"  Well,  my  Seiiora  puts  up  her  apron  over 
her  head  and  says  she,  '  I'm  no  witness  to  it,  if 
young  Pico  gets  killed  here  to-night,  I  wash  my 
hands  of  it ;  but  for  God's  sake  give  him  no 
more  rum.' " 

"  Damn  the  women  ! "  broke  in  one  of  the 
men.  "They  don't  know  nothing,  nohow. 
Juan  Pico  is  a  man  and  knows  his  business. 
If  he'd  won  a  flock  of  sheep,  would  he  ha' 
given  'em  back  ?  " 

"Not  him,"  said  Andre,  "Indians  ain't 
built  that  way!  Besides  he's  as  crooked  as 
a  manzinita  branch ;  so  was  old  Pico  before 
him." 

"  As  for  his  mother,"  said  one  of  the  stran- 


10  JUAN  PICO 

gers,  "a  viler  French  Creole  never  begged 
from  door  to  door  through  the  San  Fernando 
valley." 

"  A  lady,  indeed,"  contemptuously  exclaimed 
Andre,  "  that  is  what  old  Pico  said,  but  none 
of  the  old  Mission  records  show  any  sign  of  a 
marriage  between  'em,  and  yet  this  brazen 
young  Juan  holds  hisself  head  and  shoulders 
over  any  man  in  the  San  Gabriel  valley.  I 
wish  you'd  knifed  him." 

Juan  Pico  had  heard  enough ;  springing  to 
his  feet  he  started  toward  the  bar-room.  Sud 
denly  he  stopped  in  the  attitude  of  a  wrestler, 
his  hands  savagely  clenched : 

"  It's  a  lie,  a  lie — but  I  must  prove  it  to  the 
whole  valley.  After  that,  let  them  knife  me 
— if  they  can." 

And  he  strode  out  under  the  grapevines 
and  lemon  trees  toward  the  main  road  that  led 
up  through  the  valley  to  the  San  Gabriel  Mis 
sion.  Far  to  the  northeast,  range  after  range 
of  glorious  mountains  wandered  away  in  the 
distance,  and  the  long  green  valley  stretched 
in  pensive  quietness  toward  the  western  sea. 
In  the  far  south  San  Diego  mountain  lifted 


JUAN  PICO  11 

its  hoary  head  revealing  and  yet  hiding  the 
secrets  of  centuries. 

Juan  had  turned  to  the  southwest,  and  the 
slightly  salty  breeze  from  the  ocean  kissed  his 
heated  brow.  He  longed  to  be  away  from 
these  scenes — to  be  away  on  the  Catalina 
Islands,  those  gems  on  the  breast  of  the  bil 
lows.  Dashing  through  his  brain,  the  blood 
made  his  temples  throb,  and  the  words  he  had 
listened  to,  so  rang  in  his  ears,  that  he  was  ob 
livious  to  all  customary  sights  and  sounds. 

"  No  marriage  record  ?  No  sacred  tie  ?  No 
paper  to  prove  it  ?  " 

These  questions  beat  in  his  brain  like  surf 
upon  the  shore. 

"  It's  a  lie !  And  every  one  shall  know  it." 
He  tried  to  collect  his  thoughts. 

"  Had  not  good  Father  Baptiste  told  him  of 
how  he  had  married  his  father  and  mother 
down  in  the  Los  Angeles  Mission?"  He 
stopped.  "Alas  !  It  was  nine  long  years  since 
Father  Baptiste  had  died."  A  frown  puckered 
his  brows,  he  slackened  his  pace,  then  looked 
up  defiantly : 

"What  is  the  walk  to  Los  Angeles?    The 


12  JUAN  PICO 

priest  there  will  look  through  the  records  for 
me,  or  I  can  do  it  myself." 

Juan  Pico  started  on  smiling  with  firmly 
closed  lips  :  he  had  the  virtues  of  his  heritage, 
the  patience  of  the  Indian  and  the  will  of  the 
Mexican ;  all  fire  and  iron  but  let  the  blow  of 
the  hammer  fall  and  sparks  fly  in  all  direc 
tions. 

Along  the  road  could  be  seen  groups  of 
men  sitting  or  leaning  against  the  houses  and 
fences.  Juan  was  dimly  conscious  that  they 
were  talking  of  his  loss,  for  their  gestures  in 
dicated  that  the  subject  under  discussion  was 
an  uncommon  one,  even  in  a  locality  where 
gambling  was  the  chief  occupation. 

Slowly  the  sun  was  sinking ;  only  the  moun 
tain  peaks  reflected  its  wasting  glory.  Just  a 
faint  salmon  tint  touched  the  summit  of  old 
Baldy.  Silently  twilight  was  settling  in  the 
valley  and  over  the  little  town,  if  town  it 
could  be  called,  for  it  was  but  a  long  chain  of 
old  adobe  houses  scattered  along  the  roadside, 
like  beads  upon  a  rosary,  with  Andre's  saloon 
at  one  end  and  the  old  San  Gabriel  Mission  at 
the  other.  Many  a  life's  tragedy  had  been  en- 


JUAN  PICO  13 

acted  between  these  points,  and  Time  in  his 
flight  had  left  a  trail  of  blood  along  the  road. 
On  this  very  road,  in  the  early  days  of  the 
Mission  the  beautiful  Seiiorita  Domingo  was 
slain  by  her  jealous  Spanish  lover.  It  was  said 
that  years  after  he  was  killed  by  a  flash  of 
lightning  over  in  Kubio  Canon.  In  a  preoccu 
pied  way,  Juan  thought  of  the  Senorita  lying 
dead  with  a  stiletto  in  her  back,  and  a  slight 
shudder  ran  through  his  frame. 

"Not  yet,"  he  muttered.  "Holy  Virgin, 
not  yet.  The  record  must  be  found.  I  am 
coming  to  pray  to  you."  As  if  speaking  to 
himself,  he  continued :  "  I  will  confess  all  to 
the  good  old  father,  and  he  will  help  me  to 
make  over  the  sheep  to  Gonzalez.  Then  I  will 
go  to  Los  Angeles,  but  first  I  must  see  Anita." 

With  this  name  on  his  lips,  he  tried  the 
heavy  oak  door  of  the  Mission.  It  was  locked. 
Then  he  walked  to  the  side  where  the  old 
stone  steps  led  up  to  the  choir-loft.  He 
paused  a  moment  under  the  soft  waving 
pepper  trees  whose  branches  hung  over  the 
stairway ;  then  hastening  to  the  top  he  tried 
the  latch,  but  it,  too,  was  fast.  Eetracing  his 


14  JUAN  PICO 

steps,  he  went  to  the  priest's  house  at  the 
other  end  of  the  building.  Climbing  over  the 
long  wide  veranda  were  roses  and  jasmin,  for 
the  good  old  father  was  fond  of  flowers,  and 
every  day  the  year  round  had  a  fresh  bunch 
picked  and  placed  at  the  Virgin's  feet. 

Juan  hoped  that  the  father  would  open  the 
door.  He  tapped  gently,  oh,  so  gently,  it 
could  scarcely  have  been  heard  across  the 
room  inside.  There  was  no  response.  Again 
he  knocked.  This  time  somewhat  louder. 
Then  he  heard  the  heavy  tread  of  the  house 
keeper  and  his  heart  sank.  Opening  the  door 
she  saw  Juan  and  said  harshly : 

"  Well,  and  what's  up  now  ?  " 

"Is  the  father  in?" 

"  I  should  say  he  was  in ;  he's  at  his  devo 
tions,  where  you  and  every  gambler  in  the 
valley  should  be  confessing  your  sins  and  do 
ing  penance." 

Slamming  the  door  in  his  face  she  left  Juan 
standing  on  the  outside.  He  looked  at  the 
closed  door  as  if  in  a  dream.  "  Could  it  be 
possible  that  he  had  been  turned  away  ?  he, 
Juan  Pico  ?  Since  he  was  old  enough  to  pray, 


JUAN  PICO  15 

had  he  not  dined  here  often  with  the  fathers  ? 
Was  it  not  here  that  old  Father  Petra  Palma 
had  taught  him  to  read  and  write?  taught 
him  the  uses  of  colors  and  how  to  know  the 
wild  flowers  in  the  fields  ?  Had  he  not  illus 
trated  the  Holy  Creed  on  sheepskin  and  was 
it  not  now  hanging  in  the  father's  room  be 
neath  the  statue  of  the  Virgin?  Was  he 
turned  away  ?  " 

These  thoughts  rushed  through  his  mind 
and  smote  him  like  a  lariat. 

"  What  if  Father  Ambrose  had  heard  of  his 
last  loss  at  cards  ?  Would  he  ever  again  have 
faith  in  his  promises?  Would  he  listen  to 
him  at  all?"  He  stood  quite  still  and  then 
began  to  pray.  As  he  prayed  the  shadow  of 
Father  Ambrose  fell  upon  the  casement  of  his 
room  and  Juan  walked  firmly  across  the  ve 
randa  and  knocked  at  the  door. 

It  was  opened  almost  immediately  and  the 
reverend  old  man  stood  in  the  doorway.  The 
lamp  on  the  table  behind  him  cast  a  golden 
glow  about  his  head.  To  Juan  it  looked  like 
a  halo. 

"  Come  in,  my  boy,"  said  the  father,  gently 


16  JUAN  PICO 

taking  him  by  both  hands.  Then  as  the  light 
fell  upon  Juan's  face,  he  exclaimed :  "  I'm  not 
mistaken,  it's  really  Juan." 

"  Yes,  father,  Juan,  the  last  of  the  Picos, 
ruined,  and  a  beggar !  " 

"  Hush,  hush,  my  son,  not  so  fast,  lest  the 
path  be  hard  to  retrace.  Come  in,  sit  down  ; 
tell  me  what  it  is  all  about,  Juan,  none  that 
live  are  lost." 

"  But,  father,  I  am  a  beggar !  " 

"Not  so,  my  son;  have  you  not  your 
health  ?  Eemember,  none  but  the  ill  are  beg 
gars,  for  they,  indeed,  beg  for  health." 

"  Father,  I  am  a  ruined  man !  " 

"Impossible,  son,  only  the  aged  are  ruined, 
for  they  no  longer  can  withstand  the  blasts  of 
the  world." 

Juan,  soothed  by  the  voice  and  words  of  the 
old  priest,  was  persuaded  to  sit  down  and  con 
tinued  less  abruptly : 

"  Eeverend  father,  I  have  broken  my  prom 
ise  to  you.  To-day  I  was  drinking  in  Andre's 
saloon,  and  I  broke  my  promise  not  to  play 
cards.  At  first,  I  told  Gonzalez  I  would  play 
just  one  game  with  him.  But  when  I  won,— 


JUAN  PICO  17 

father,  the  devil  got  into  me,  I  could  not  stop, 
I  had  to  go  on.  I  lost  the  next  game,  then  I 
won  again.  I'm  sorry  I  broke  my  promise, 
but  I  forgot  everything  except  the  game.  And 
the  men  were  standing  all  around  us  and 
shouting.  At  last  I  staked  my  sheep  upon  a 
card.  I  turned  it, — I  had  lost !  The  crowd 
yelled, '  Gonzalez  has  won !  Gonzalez  is  a  good 
fellow ! '  They  were  all  laughing  and  swear 
ing  and  yelling." 

Father  Ambrose  looked  at  Juan  for  a  mo 
ment,  then  said : 

"  When  did  this  happen  ?  " 

"This  morning." 

"  Why  did  you  not  come  to  me  at  once  ?  " 

"  I  couldn't  get  away,  I  couldn't  leave  the 
saloon  until  now,  father ;  I  was  trying  to  think 
how  I  could  win  back  my  sheep. — And,  father, 
I  heard  the  men  talking  after  they  thought  I 
had  gone  away.  They  called  me  a  fool,  that 
I  knew  "— 

"Well,"  said  Father  Ambrose,  gently,  "go 
on,  you  have  more  you  wish  to  tell  me,  have 
you  not,  Juan  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  Juan  cried  passionately,  "  the  dogs 


18  JUAN  PICO 

down,  there  say  that  my  father  and  mother 
were  low  people,  that  they  were  never  mar 
ried.  It's  a  lie,  isn't  it,  father  ?  " 

"  Juan,  do  not  be  troubled  ;  those  who  are 
evil  themselves,  are  only  too  glad  to  speak 
evil  of  others." 

"  But  you  believe  it's  a  lie,  don't  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Juan,  I  knew  your  sainted  father  and 
mother  well." 

"  Father  Baptiste  told  me  that  he  married  my 
father  and  mother  at  the  Los  Angeles  Mission." 

"  The  records  there  will  prove  it.  So  do 
not  be  worried  by  what  you  have  heard." 

"  But  they  shall  know  it's  a  lie,  and  I  am 
going  to  Los  Angeles  for  proof ! " 

"  I  would,  my  son ;  that  will  set  your  mind 
at  rest.  The  priests  there  will  help  you  to 
trace  the  record,  and  all  will  be  well." 

"  In  the  morning  I  must  go  to  the  notary 
and  have  him  draw  up  the  paper  giving  the 
sheep  to  Gonzalez." 

"  Yes,  Juan,  in  the  morning." 

"When  that  is  done,  I  must  go  over  to 
Otero  ranch,  and  from  there,  on  to  Los  An 
geles.  But,  father" — 


JUAN  PICO  19 

"  What  is  it,  Juan  ?  " 

"  There  is  the  money  due  me  for  the  wool. 
I  will  leave  word  for  it  to  be  paid  to  you. 
Will  you  send  it  to  Father  Jerome,  at  Los 
Angeles  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  will  arrange  that  for  you.  And  do 
not  come  back  here  for  a  time  yourself. 
Father  Jerome  will  have  a  copy  made  from 
the  record ;  send  this  to  me.  I  will  attend  to 
the  affair  for  you.  I  will  show  the  paper  to 
Andre  and  to  others,  and  will  see  that  the  re 
port  is  contradicted." 

Juan  pressed  the  father's  hand  gratefully. 
They  were  sitting  side  by  side. 

"You  well  know,  Juan,  what  cause  the 
fathers  of  the  missions  have  for  loving  your 
family.  For  generations  the  Pico  gold  has 
helped  toward  building  the  long  chain  of  Mis 
sions  that  extend  all  the  way  from  San  Diego 
to  San  Francisco.  Much  of  this  gold  was 
brought  with  difficulty  from  Mexican  mines. 
In  this  very  Mission  one  of  your  rich  ancestors 
nursed  a  priest  through  an  illness  of  smallpox 
when  no  one  could  be  hired  to  do  it.  To  this 
day  masses  are  said  for  the  repose  of  his  soul. 


20  JUAN  PICO 

Should  we  not  love  the  son  of  that  family  ? 
Surely,  and  we  do.  Never  has  a  Pico  lived 
who  has  not  given  freely  to  the  church,  for 
they  have  loved  the  Missions  and  the  church. 

"  And  in  many  ways  they  have  shown  their 
love,  by  prayers  and  alms  and  gifts,  a  well 
dug  at  their  expense,  a  field,  or  a  flock  of 
sheep  given,  a  shrine,  a  bell — no  Pico  has  ever 
taken  an  empty  hand  out  of  his  pocket  in  any 
of  our  missions." 

Juan  started  to  speak,  the  priest  motioned 
him  to  wait,  "And  at  the  Pico  ranch  no 
hungry  traveler  has  ever  been  turned  away." 

"  Until  now,"  broke  in  Juan,  "  for  now  there 
is  nothing  but  the  bare  grazing  fields  and  the 
house;  for  I  have  gambled  away  the  wheat- 
fields,  the  groves  and  now  the  sheep.  I  am 
the  first  Pico  who  has  nothing  to  give." 

"  You  have  your  two  hands,  you  have  health 
and  youth.  "With  these  you  have  no  right  to 
say  that  you  have  nothing." 

The  mildly  penetrating  eyes  of  Father  Am 
brose  looked  Juan  through  and  through ;  after 
a  pause  he  asked : 

"  Juan,  are  you  done  with  gambling  ?  " 


JUAN  PICO  21 

"  Father,  I  will  never  gamble  again." 

"Also,  promise  me,  that  in  any  difficulty 
you  will  come  at  once  to  Father  Jerome,  or  to 
me.  No  one  cares  more  for  you  than  we  do, 
for  you  are  a  son  of  the  Missions." 

"  Father,  I  promise  you.  And  I  repent  that 
I  have  done  wrong,  that  I  have  broken  my 
former  promises."  Tears  ran  down  Juan's 
face ;  he  sank  on  his  knees :  "I  promise  again 
that  I  will  never  gamble,  and  if  I  am  in  need 
of  advice  that  I  will  come  to  you  or  to  Father 
Jerome.  Forgive  me,  father;  tell  me  what 
penance  you  would  have  me  do." 

"  My  son,  I  forgive  you.  The  Holy  Church 
forgives  you.  Show  your  repentance  by  good 
deeds." 

Juan  sobbed  aloud,  the  father  stood,  placed 
his  thin  hands  on  the  bowed  head  before  him 
and  went  on : 

"  Go  to  work  at  something  as  soon  as  possi 
ble.  Perhaps  Los  Angeles  will  be  the  place. 
And  now,  my  son,  bless  you  and  peace  be 
with  you." 

With  the  sign  of  the  cross  on  his  forehead 
a  prayerful  look  fell  over  Juan's  face,  such  as 


22  JUAN  PICO 

it  had  not  known  since  the  days  when  he  was 
serving  as  an  acolyte  before  the  altar. 

When  Juan  rose  to  depart,  Father  Ambrose 
took  the  young  man  in  his  arms  and  kissed  him. 

"To-night,  you  shall  stay  here  and  sleep 
where  you  have  slept  so  often  when  you  were 
a  boy." 

A  little  later  they  crossed  the  court,  and  as 
Father  Ambrose  bade  the  penitent  man  good 
night,  he  said : 

"  Kest  well,  my  son,  you  are  in  the  care  of 
the  good  God." 

And  closing  the  door  behind  him,  the  good 
priest  left  Juan  in  the  quiet  little  room  whose 
four  walls  of  late  years  had  so  seldom  shel 
tered  him. 

All  night  Juan  tossed  restlessly  upon  the 
bed.  Through  the  open  window  the  large 
silver  moon  shot  its  beautiful  shaft  of  light, 
and  now  and  then,  he  heard  the  glorious  songs 
of  the  nightingales  in  the  trees,  and  he  lis 
tened  to  the  old  clock  in  the  next  room  as  it 
steadily  chimed  the  hours  away ;  nor  did  he 
fall  asleep  until  the  pale  streaks  of  dawn 
crossed  the  Eastern  sky. 


TWO 

"  Give  me  thy  hand,  and  hush  awhile, 
And  turn  those  limpid  eyes  on  mine 
And  let  me  read  there,  love,  thy  inmost  soul." 

—  THE  BURIED  LIFE. 


the  fierce  midday  sun  Otero  ranch 
stood  triumphantly  beautiful.  In  full  bloom, 
the  almond  trees  looked  as  if  soft  pink  and 
white  clouds  had  flung  themselves  among  the 
branches.  Bees  hummed  everywhere  and  the 
air  was  heavy  with  the  perfume  of  flowers. 
Near  at  hand,  picking  the  ripe  fruit  from  the 
overladen  trees,  orange  gatherers  were  singing. 

On  the  long  veranda  that  stretched  around 
three  sides  of  the  court,  several  old  women 
were  idly  sitting  in  the  shade.  In  pots  and 
jars  on  the  wide  window-sills,  geraniums  were 
growing.  And  on  the  shady  side  of  the  house, 
in  their  wicker  cages,  some  linnets  were  sing 
ing.  Wandering  over  the  house  a  trumpet 
vine  clung  caressingly  to  the  walls,  and  even 
climbed  up  on  the  old  red-tiled  roof. 

About  the  ranch  everything  was  life  and  ac- 

23 


24  JUAN  PICO 

tivity.  Men  hurried  here,  and  women  hurried 
there.  And  over  all,  presided  Senora  Gintaris, 
who  gave  her  orders  to  Sebastian,  the  head 
ranchman,  and  he  in  turn  gave  them  to  the 
hands. 

All  of  the  hands  about  the  place  stood  in 
awe  of  Senora  Gintaris,  but  many  of  them  had 
known  her  in  her  childhood,  and  some  of  them 
had  worked  for  her  parents  and  grandparents. 
They  had  an  unquestioning  respect  for  all  that 
the  Senora  said,  and  whether  she  was  right  or 
wrong  they  obeyed  her  commands  to  the  let 
ter.  In  the  evenings,  when  the  hands  were 
gathered  together,  the  men  smoking  cigarettes 
and  the  women  gossiping,  above  the  hum  of 
the  lively  conversation,  every  now  and  then  a 
dispute  would  be  settled,  or  a  position  defended 
by  the  emphatic  assertion,  "  The  Senora  said 
thus  and  so,"  or  "  The  Senora  told  him  to  do 
this  or  that." 

Senora  Gintaris  had  always  been  the  head 
of  her  household  and  she  managed  it  well. 
There  was  a  place  for  everything  on  Otero 
ranch,  and  everything  was  in  its  place,  or  the 
Senora  knew  it.  At  the  death  of  her  father, 


JUAN  PICO  25 

Don  Antonio  Otero,  the  ranch  had  fallen  to 
her,  and  here  she  had  spent  most  of  her  life. 
From  its  oatfield  of  eight  thousand  acres  to 
the  spearmint  patch  beside  the  stream,  there 
was  not  an  inch  of  its  surface  that  was  un 
known  to  her. 

As  soon  as  the  rains  fell,  men  flocked  to  the 
great  Otero  ranch,  for  the  Senora  always  had 
it  plowed  at  once,  and  employed  outside  hands 
whenever  that  seemed  best  to  her.  Indeed, 
Senora  Gintaris  set  the  seasons  for  those  she 
employed  not  less  punctually  than  did  the 
signs  of  the  Zodiac.  She  knew  by  name  every 
man,  woman  and  child  at  work  in  the  fields, 
and  was  known  and  looked  up  to,  by  them  and 
by  every  one  throughout  the  entire  valley. 

After  the  death  of  her  husband,  the  Senora 
had  adopted  a  little  child  which  filled  in  part 
the  vacancy  in  her  life.  In  loving  the  little 
Anita,  Senora  Gintaris  was  selfishly  happy. 
For  when  she  adopted  Anita,  her  own  happi 
ness,  not  that  of  the  child,  was  uppermost  in 
her  mind,  and  she  provided  so  that  Anita  should 
live  to  fulfill  that  purpose.  At  first,  Senora 
Gintaris  knew  nothing  of  Anita's  parents,  ex- 


26  JUAN  PICO 

cept  that  the  nuns  in  Santa  Barbara  told  her 
when  she  took  the  babe  from  them,  that  she 
had  been  left  on  the  doorstep  of  the  convent. 
Facts,  however,  were  later  learned,  and  it  was 
proven  that  the  child's  father  was  a  cattle- 
ranger  from  San  Buenaventura,  and  her  mother 
a  Spanish  girl  who  sold  laces  along  the  high 
way  from  Los  Angeles  to  San  Diego.  These 
facts,  however,  did  not  disturb  the  slumbers  of 
the  Seiiora.  Anita  was  pretty,  loving  and 
obedient,  Senora  Gintaris  asked  no  more.  Be 
sides,  Anita's  disposition  entirely  suited,  and 
Senora  Gintaris  had  educated  her  herself, 
teaching  her  French  and  Spanish,  and  also  to 
sing  and  play  upon  the  guitar. 

Anita's  voice  was  naturally  charming,  a 
sweet,  clear  soprano,  resembling  the  song  of  a 
lark  rather  more  than  that  of  a  nightingale. 
Seiiora  Gintaris  loved  music,  and  Anita  sang 
to  her  every  night.  No  matter  what  the  cares 
of  the  day  had  been,  Anita  would  go  to  the 
Senora  and  say : 

"  Madre  mi,  shall  I  sing  to  you  ?  " 
And  no  matter  what  troubled  the  Senora, 
she  would  always  smile  and  answer : 


JUAN  PICO  27 

"  Yes,  my  child." 

Nothing  ever  seemed  so  to  sway  the  emo 
tions  of  Senora  Gintaris  as  did  the  singing  of 
Anita. 

Often  when  Anita  sang,  the  hands  would 
gather  around,  and  when  she  played  a  fandango 
on  the  guitar,  some  of  them  would  dance.  Old 
Sebastian  claimed  that  there  was  a  devil  in 
Anita's  guitar,  but  Amelia,  the  cook,  would 
retort : 

"Devil,  or  angel,  her  music  touches  the 
heart." 

Many  an  hour  during  the  day,  Anita  sang 
and  played  to  herself  in  her  room  or  out  in  the 
almond  grove,  for  her  love  of  solitude  equaled 
that  of  the  hermit  thrush.  And  she  was  like 
a  thrush  wandering  about  among  the  trees  and 
singing  songs  that  gushed  from  the  heart, 
usually  sad  plaintive  airs  or  parts  of  the  mass. 
Music  was  her  chief  recreation,  and  the  Senora's 
love  and  approval,  her  dearest  wish.  Just 
thirteen  she  was  a  beautiful  girl,  giving  prom 
ise  of  a  noble  womanhood.  Her  mind  had 
been  moulded  by  the  Senora  like  plaster  in  an 
artist's  hands.  No  book  was  ever  read  by  her 


28  JUAN  PICO 

that  the  Seiiora  did  not  previously  examine, 
nor  did  her  eyes  look  upon  a  picture  that  the 
Seiiora  had  not  seen;  so  tenderly  was  she 
guarded  that  such  things  as  envy,  hatred  and 
malice  were  unknown  to  her.  "When  she  con 
fessed  to  the  father,  it  was  some  secret  desire 
for  the  Senora's  happiness  that  was  lisped,  or 
some  innocent,  worldly  wish  to  know  more  of 
life  and  of  what  the  future  had  in  store  for  her. 
Trusting  to  the  Senora  in  everything,  she  never 
asked  questions,  nor  made  plans  for  herself. 

Although  Anita  saw  few  young  people,  un 
known  to  her  love  had  secretly  entered  her 
heart,  but  all  that  she  realized  of  his  presence, 
was  that  at  times  she  was  supremely  happy 
and  trusted  every  one. 

Lately  she  talked  more  than  had  been  her 
custom  with  the  old  women  about  the  ranch, 
who  often  said  to  her : 

"  Seiiorita,  do  not  be  too  happy,  some  ill 
may  come  of  it." 

The  Senora  also  noticed  Anita's  gay  light- 
heartedness  and  sometimes  asked  : 

"What  has  happened  to  my  little  song 
bird?" 


JUAN  Pico  29 

Anita  would  laugh  and  embrace  the  Senora, 
kiss  her  and  reply : 

"Madre  mi,  Anita  loves  you." 

At  this,  under  her  smiles,  sometimes  the 
Seiiora  would  sigh.  The  Senora  often  sighed, 
for  with  her,  life  had  been  a  tempestuous  sea 
of  joys  and  sorrows,  with  her  heart  tossing 
restlessly  upon  its  billows.  Scarcely  had  she 
been  married  a  year,  when  Senor  Gintaris  fell 
dead  in  the  field,  struck  by  a  blast  from  the 
sun.  Other  sorrows  she  had  known,  but  of 
the  loss  of  her  husband  Senora  Gintaris  never 
spoke,  it  was  buried  in  the  innermost  chambers 
of  her  heart.  A  streak  of  grey  in  her  hair 
was  the  only  visible  mark  of  the  blow  that 
had  fallen  upon  her. 

In  a  selfish  way,  the  Senora's  life  was  bound 
up  in  Anita.  Compassion  and  pity  were  the 
cradles  in  which  she  first  rocked  the  little 
child ;  by  and  by,  as  Anita  grew  and  increased 
in  beauty,  admiration  came  and  the  Seiiora 
found  herself  idolizing  the  girl  and  yielding  to 
Anita's  every  wish  so  far  as  her  own  conven 
ience  was  not  disturbed. 

One  wish  of  Anita's  it  had  never  suited  the 


30  JUAtt  PICO 

Senora  to  grant.  Anita  longed  to  visit  Los 
Angeles,  to  see  the  city  and  the  sea,  and  the 
desire  deferred,  became  at  last  the  dream  of 
her  life.  She  often  begged : 

"  Madre  ini,  take  me  with  you  this  time." 

But  the  Senora  invariably  set  aside  her 
pleading  with  the  answer : 

"  My  child,  there's  plenty  of  time,  plenty  of 
time ;  some  day  you  shall  go  with  me,  and  I 
will  take  you  up  to  San  Francisco,  also,  for  I 
have  affairs  there,  too.  And  we  will  stay  as 
long  as  you  please,  and  you  shall  see  every 
thing.  Meanwhile,  be  not  hurried,  my  little 
bird,  to  fly  from  the  nest." 

Anita,  caressingly  put  off,  waited  happily  ; 
for  the  love  of  the  Senora  softened  refusal 
and  brightened  promises.  At  first  she  was 
patient,  but  as  the  hoped-for  city  continued 
to  recede  before  her,  Anita  began  to  fear 
that  she  should  never  see  it.  Wherever  she 
went,  whatever  she  did,  always  close  in  her 
thoughts  slumbered  the  wish  to  see  new 
scenes  and  new  people,  and  by  the  time 
she  had  reached  the  stature  of  womanhood, 
the  longing  had  engraved  upon  her  heart 


JUAN  PICO  31 

the  name  of  the  city  of  the  angels,  Los  An 
geles. 

In  the  spring,  they  could  not  go,  for  the 
crops  had  to  be  planted  ;  in  the  summer,  irri 
gating  ditches  had  to  be  repaired  and  ex 
tended  ;  in  the  fall,  crops  had  to  be  gathered 
and  fruits  shipped ;  and  throughout  the  year  the 
Senora's  friends  made  her  many  visits.  Thus 
the  months  went  by,  season  followed  season 
in  quick  succession,  and  the  quiet  monotonous 
life  of  the  ranch  continued.  Anita  attended  to 
her  duties  as  regularly  as  she  said  her  prayers. 
She  kept  the  vases  filled  with  fresh  flowers, 
she  performed  little  grateful  services  for  the 
sick,  she  fed  the  peacocks  and  each  night  she 
watched  the  counting  of  the  sheep. 

Occasionally,  in  the  evening,  old  Sebastian 
would  drive  the  Senora  and  Anita  up  the  val 
ley  road  or  accompany  them  over  into  the 
neighboring  canon  where  the  Seiiora  kept  her 
bees.  At  such  times  the  Senora  and  Sebastian 
would  discuss  what  was  transpiring  on  the 
ranch,  the  condition  of  the  crops,  the  prospect 
of  the  harvest  and  how  the  help  were  doing. 

But  of  late,  things  were  changing ;  each  day 


32  JUAN  PICO 

the  Senora  contrived  to  ask  less  of  the  old 
overseer,  and  relied  more  upon  her  own  expe 
rience  and  observation.  This  worried  Sebas 
tian,  and  he  was  beginning  to  ask  himself  if 
Senora  Gintaris  intended  to  manage  the  ranch 
without  his  help.  Though  for  many  years  he 
had  been  in  her  employ,  in  his  inmost  heart 
he  knew  that  no  one  employed  on  the  ranch 
was  indispensable  to  her.  There  was  no  one 
for  whose  place  she  could  not  provide  a  sub 
stitute.  The  whole  of  her  large  property  was 
easily  to  be  managed  by  Senora  Gintaris. 

Strict  in  the  management  of  temporal 
affairs,  she  was  equally  strict  in  regard  to 
spiritual  duties,  and  those  who  lived,  or 
worked  on  Otero  ranch  were  expected  to 
practice  many  of  the  daily  observances  usual 
only  at  the  Missions.  Senora  Gintaris  was  a 
devout  Catholic  and  bowed  to  the  will  of  the 
church  with  a  reverence  and  submission  that 
was  a  splendid  example  to  all  who  knew  her. 

Every  day  at  noon,  a  bell  attached  to  a 
sycamore  tree  was  rung,  and  every  one  on  the 
ranch  for  a  few  minutes  stopped  work  and 
repeated  a  prayer.  Old  Sebastian,  whose 


JUAN  Pico  33 

temper  kept  him  bad  friends  with  Amelia,  the 
cook,  if  he  were  near  her  at  this  hour,  would 
look  at  her  and  say : 

"  Madam,  I  hope  you  are  well  to-day,"  and 
his  heart  would  soften  just  a  little. 

This  noon-bell  was  ringing  as  Juan  Pico 
entered  the  little  plaza,  which  on  three  sides 
was  bounded  by  the  connecting  verandas  of 
the  house.  He  had  started  the  morning  be 
fore  from  the  San  Gabriel  Mission,  and  he  was 
dusty  and  tired.  Lifting  his  sombrero  he 
stood  for  a  few  moments  with  bowed  head, 
then  he  walked  on  toward  Sebastian  who  was 
now  leaning  in  the  shade  against  a  support  to 
the  veranda. 

Sebastian  said  nothing,  he  did  not  even 
smile,  but  after  looking  furtively  about,  offered 
Juan  a  cigarette.  Juan  hesitated,  then  with 
a  questioning  gesture  he  accepted  it.  After  a 
moment,  both  men  went  slowly  over  to  a 
bench  under  a  large  old  orange  tree,  just  out 
side  the  court.  Sebastian  seated  himself  with 
the  lingering  carefulness  of  an  old  man,  but 
Juan  stood  looking  at  the  house.  His  eyes 
first  glanced  along  the  verandas,  then  toward 


34  JUAN  PICO 

one  window,  then  toward  another.  Presently 
he  sat  down  beside  Sebastian,  saying : 

"  Where  is  the  Senora  ?  " 

"  She  has  just  gone  down  to  the  lower  end 
of  the  orange  grove." 

For  awhile  they  puffed  at  their  cigarettes 
in  silence ;  Sebastian  waited  for  Juan  to  ask 
further  questions.  But  he  did  not.  When 
Sebastian  could  keep  silent  no  longer,  he  took 
hold  of  Juan's  arm  and  said : 

"  Pico,  there  is  something  on  the  Senora's 
mind.  For  almost  a  week  she  has  not  sent  for 
me.  That  has  never  happened  before.  I 
don't  know  what  it  means — no  one  but  the 
priest  knows  all  the  Senora's  got  in  her  head ; 
but  she's  thinking  something  over,  you  can 
gamble  upon  that." 

Sebastian  looked  questioningly  at  Juan  as 
though  inviting  his  confidence,  but  Juan  only 
rubbed  his  heavy  hands  together,  and  puffed 
somewhat  less  lazily  at  his  cigarette,  before 
asking : 

"  Has  any  one  from  San  Gabriel  been  here 
lately  ?  » 

"  No  one,  why  do  you  ask  ?  " 


JUAN  PICO  35 

Juan  threw  his  cigarette  away  and  stood 
up: 

"  Oh,  I  wanted  to  know.  I  shall  walk 
down  into  the  orange  grove  and  see  the 
Senora." 

"JSTo,  Pico,"  said  Sebastian,  catching  at 
Juan's  sleeve.  "No;  the  Senora  left  word 
that  she  would  see  no  one." 

Observing  that  Juan  stood  as  though  un 
decided,  Sebastian  added  with  a  look  of  cun 
ning: 

"Don't  you  try  to  see  the  Senora  to-day, 
Pico." 

Juan  looked  at  Sebastian  but  said  nothing ; 
they  lighted  fresh  cigarettes  and  walked  in 
silence  over  to  the  sheep  corral. 

"  Por  Dios  !  "  said  Juan,  leaning  against  the 
fence.  "  When  are  you  going  to  have  those 
sheep  sheared  ?  " 

"Just  as  soon  as  we  can  get  shearers," 
replied  Sebastian. 

"There  is  not  less  than  eight  hundred 
pounds  on  those  sheep,"  said  Juan,  glancing 
critically  over  the  animals,  for  he  could  cal 
culate  almost  to  a  pound  on  the  sheep. 


36  JUAN  PICO 

"  Poor  devils !  "  he  exclaimed,  "  I  am  sorry 
for  them." 

Under  the  beating  violence  of  the  sun,  the 
sheep  panted  in  extreme  exhaustion;  they 
were  almost  dead  with  the  weight  of  the 
wool.  Around  the  corral  thousands  of  grass 
hoppers  sang  their  everlasting  songs  of  sun 
and  summer,  and  in  a  neighboring  tree  a 
locust  buzzed  incessantly. 

Turning,  the  men  began  to  walk  slowly  back 
toward  the  court,  the  maids  in  the  kitchen 
watching  and  gossiping  about  them.  Pres 
ently,  Anita  passed  along  the  veranda,  and  the 
women  subdued  their  voices,  but  watched 
Juan  more  sharply  than  before. 

Anita  walked  on  into  her  own  room  and  sat 
down  by  the  window.  Looking  out  she 
caught  ,sight  of  the  approaching  figures,  and 
her  dark,  pretty  cheeks  became,  if  possible, 
more  rosy  than  the  geraniums  vined  about 
her  window.  Instantly  she  arose  and  disap 
peared.  In  a  moment  she  had  returned,  car 
rying  her  guitar.  Glancing  out  at  Juan  she 
began  to  play.  The  two  men  halted  for  a 
second,  looking  at  her,  then  Sebastian  said 


JUAN  PICO  37 

something  to  Juan  in  a  low  voice.  Juan  paid 
no  attention ;  but  went  straight  on  to  the 
house,  stepped  up  on  the  veranda  and  stood 
outside  Anita's  window.  She  looked  up  with 
a  bird-like  turn  of  the  head,  nodded,  and 
smiled  at  him,  showing  her  pretty  teeth,  but 
did  not  stop  singing.  In  one  hand  Juan  held 
his  sombrero,  the  other  hand  rested  upon  his 
hip.  He  looked  down  at  Anita  with  a  burn 
ing  flush  on  his  cheek,  watching  her  intently 
and  thinking : 

"  She  is  as  fair  as  the  Virgin.  How  pretty 
her  hair  grows  about  her  face  and  neck,  and 
that  red  blossom  so  close  to  her  ear, — if  I  dared 
to  whisper  as  close  to  her  as  that." 

Again  she  smiled  up  at  him,  his  eyes  grew 
more  burning. 

"  How  happy  she  is — what  if  the  stories  of 
her  parents  that  the  Senora  has  told  me  are 
true?  The  Senora  does  not  mind  them  her 
self.  I  do  not  believe  they  will  make  a  little 
nun  of  her." 

Anita  finished  playing  and  took  the  ribbon 
of  the  guitar  from  about  her  neck.  Placing 
the  instrument  upon  the  window-sill  beside 


38  JUAN  PICO 

her,  she  drew  some  needlework  from  a  little 
basket  and  began  to  sew. 

Juan  looked  admiringly  at  her  lovely  ring- 
less  hands,  and  her  perfect  flower-like  face, 
saying : 

"  Are  you  not  glad  to  see  me,  Anita  ?  " 

"It  is  so  many  days  since  you  were 
here;  but,  perhaps,  I  am  glad  to  see  you, 
Juan." 

She  was  rosy  to  her  temples,  and  although 
she  smiled,  her  voice  was  the  least  bit  re 
proachful.  Juan  looked  at  her  attentively 
and  said  slowly : 

"  It  is  a  long  time  to  me,  Anita,  but  I  do 
not  think  that  the  Senora  likes  to  have  me 
come  to  Otero  ranch  any  more." 

"  The  Madre  does  not  like  you  to  come  here 
any  more,  Juan?"  asked  Anita,  in  astonish 
ment. 

Juan  reflected  a  moment : 

"  Anita,  it  is  this  way,  the  last  time  I  was 
here,  the  Senora  said  to  me,  '  Juan  Pico,  my 
Anita  is  no  longer  to  go  out  in  the  groves,  or 
to  go  to  see  the  sheep  with  you.' '! 

Anita's  needle  stopped ;  she  looked  up  into 


JUAN  PICO  39 

Juan's  piercing  eyes,  then  down  upon  her 
work.  Juan  continued : 

"  And,  Anita,  if  I  cannot  see  you,  I  do  not 
want  to  come  to  Otero  ranch.  Anita,  I  love 
you.  I  must  see  you.  Tell  me,  Anita,  do  you 
love  me  ?  " 

He  held  out  his  swarthy  right  hand.  Anita 
rose,  swaying  slightly  as  a  flower  sways  be 
fore  an  advancing  flame,  put  her  firm  little 
hand  in  his,  and  said  softly : 

"  Yes,  Juan." 

"A'Dios!  then;  I  shall  go  to  the  Senora  at 
once.  Shall  I  tell  her  that  you  love  me  also  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Juan." 

"  And  I  will  come  back,"  he  cried,  kissing 
passionately  the  soft  brown  hand  that  still  lay 
in  his,  "  after  I  have  seen  the  Senora."  Once 
more  he  kissed  Anita's  hand,  then  hastily  left 
her. 

Sebastian,  who  had  been  watching  the  two 
and  looking  from  time  to  time  away  from 
them  down  toward  the  orange  grove,  now  came 
to  meet  Juan ;  walking  along  beside  him,  he 
shook  his  white  head  and  vainly  tried  to  dis 
suade  him  from  going  down  into  the  grove. 


40  JUAN  PICO 

From  the  window  Anita  saw  and  wondered 
at  Sebastian's  excited  gesticulations,  and  she 
followed  Juan  with  her  eyes  as  he  outstripped 
the  old  man  and  disappeared  under  the  branches 
of  the  orange  trees,  then  she  picked  up  the 
guitar  and  went  away. 

When  Sebastian  turned  around  his  crafty 
face  wore  an  alarmed  look,  his  eyes  twitched 
and  the  wrinkles  under  the  shadow  of  his 
broad  sombrero  gathered  together  in  ugly 
meshes  about  his  sunken  eyes.  With  a  lag 
ging  step,  he  came  back  into  the  shadow  of 
the  veranda  and  sat  down. 

In  the  kitchen  Amelia  chuckled  over  Sebas 
tian's  discomfiture,  and  said  to  the  women 
busy  about  her,  loud  enough  for  him  to  over 
hear : 

"Did  you  see  him  ordering  Senor  Pico 
about  ?  Next  thing  we  know  he'll  be  telling 
the  Senora  what  he'll  have  to  eat,  and  then 
he'll  be  coming  in  here  and  ordering  me  how 
much  chile  to  put  into  the  concarne." 

To  the  insulting  laughter  of  the  maids 
Sebastian  paid  an  angry  attention,  but  his 
own  thoughts  sufficiently  employed  him,  and 


JUAN  PICO  41 

he  did  not  reply.  In  a  short  time  he  went 
away  to  carry  out  the  orders  Seiiora  Gintaris 
had  given  him  for  the  remainder  of  the  day. 

The  afternoon  wore  on.  Anita  looked  in 
vain  for  the  return  of  Juan.  She  sewed,  she 
sang,  she  fluttered  about  the  veranda,  and  a 
fresh  scarlet  gardenia  blossom  appeared  in  her 
glossy  braids.  Hour  after  hour  she  waited 
patiently,  but  Juan  Pico  did  not  come  back. 

When  the  Seiiora  returned  to  the  house  at 
sunset,  she  asked  for  Sebastian,  but  he  was  no 
where  to  be  found.  As  she  paused  on  the 
veranda  looking  out  over  the  fields,  the  short 
twilight  vanished  into  night  like  a  lamp  that 
has  been  extinguished.  Anita  was  softly  sing 
ing  to  her  guitar,  "O,  Salutaris  !  "  Seiiora 
Gintaris  sighed,  half  saying  to  herself : 

"  My  little  singing  thrush !  God  grant  that 
she  may  always  be  spared  to  gladden  my  life." 

Yoice  and  instrument  were  suddenly  silent ; 
a  light  from  within  shone  out  on  the  veranda. 

"Madre  mi !  "  called  Anita. 

"Here,  my  child,"  answered  Senora  Gin 
taris. 

In  an  instant  Anita  came  running  out,  her 


42  JUAN  PICO 

guitar  still  hanging  about  her  neck.  Throw 
ing  her  arms  around  the  Senora  she  said : 

"  I  have  been  so  lonely,  madre  mi,  you  have 
been  so  long  away — and  Juan  Pico,  is  he  here, 
too?" 

"  No,  my  child,  he  is  gone  to  Los  Angeles." 

"  Is  he  coming  back,  soon  ?  "  queried  Anita, 
timidly. 

Senora  Gintaris  accepted  the  coffee  brought 
to  her,  and  then  replied  as  though  question 
and  answer  were  of  little  moment : 

"  Juan  Pico,  my  child,  is  like  all  young  men 
of  his  stamp,  he  goes  from  place  to  place  as 
easily  as  a  bird  flies.  I  do  not  think  he  is 
coming  back." 

Senora  Gintaris  continued  to  drink  her  cof 
fee  and  to  eat  of  the  meal  that  had  been  put 
on  a  small  table  close  to  her  chair.  Anita's 
eyes  filled  with  tears.  She  did  not  move. 
The  Senora  went  on  speaking : 

"We  have  a  wonderful  orange  crop  this 
year,  and  the  packers  have  done  good  work 
to-day.  But,  Anita,  have  you  remembered 
old  Lucinda's  medicine  ?  is  it  made  fresh  for 
her?" 


JUAN  PICO  43 

"  No,  madre  mi,  I — I  had  forgotten." 

"  See  to  it  now,  my  dear,  and  that  she  wants 
nothing  for  the  night.  I  am  tired ;  in  a  little 
while  you  shall  sing  to  me." 

"Yes,  madre  mi;"  and  Anita  went  away 
with  fresh  tears  in  her  eyes  to  look  after  the 
old  nurse. 

The  Senora  had  finished  eating  and  was 
sitting  quietly  in  the  moonlight,  her  hands 
folded  in  her  lap,  when  Sebastian  came  up  to 
the  low  step.  The  Senora  said  nothing,  she 
did  not  even  turn  her  eyes  in  his  direction. 
At  length  Sebastian  asked  deferentially : 

"  The  Senora  has  orders  for  me  ?  " 

"Had  orders  for  you,"  she  said  slowly. 
Then  she  rose.  "I  will  go  into  the  garden. 
Come  there." 

She  walked  before  him  and  reaching  a 
bench  under  an  orange  tree  sat  down.  Se 
bastian  stood  before  her.  Shining  through 
the  branches,  the  moonlight  formed  an  ill- 
shaped  checker-board  of  light  and  shade  on 
the  ground  between  them.  After  a  short 
pause,  the  Senora  spoke  with  a  stern  com 
posure  ; 


44  JUAN  PICO 

"  Juan  Pico  was  at  the  house  to-day  ?  " 

"Yes,  Senora." 

"Had  I  not  given  you  orders,  if  he  came 
here  in  my  absence,  you  should  send  him 
away  at  once  ?  " 

"  Senora, — I " — Sebastian  stopped,  confused. 

"And  you  have  allowed  that  gambler  to 
remain  on  the  place  and  even  to  follow  me 
down  into  the  grove." 

"  Senora,  I  tried  to  send  him  away  without 
making  him  angry." 

"  Ah !  It  is  better  that  I  should  be  angry, 
is  it?  You  forget  that  I  am  mistress  here. 
To-morrow  I  will  send  you  your  wages  to  the 
end  of  the  season." 

"  Senora,  I  am  an  old  man, — I  will  never 
disobey  you  again." 

"  I  can  no  longer  trust  you.  For  sometime 
you  have  been  slack  in  carrying  out  my  or 
ders.  This  ends  it." 

"Senora,  I  have  served  you  faithfully  for 
years.  I  have — what  will  you  do  without 
me?" 

"Miserable  wretch!  You  are  of  no  more 
use  to  me  than  an  untrustworthy  dog.  You 


JUAN  PICO  45 

are  dismissed.  Do  you  hear  ?  You  are  dis 
missed.  Never  let  me  see  you  on  Otero  ranch 
again." 

The  Senora  rose  to  her  feet,  turned  her 
back  upon  Sebastian  and  went  up  the  moon 
lit  walk. 

Sebastian  stood  for  some  moments  as  if 
dazed,  he  had  never  before  heard  the  Senora 
use  such  terms  of  wrath ;  but  never  before  had 
any  one  disobeyed  her.  He  was  convulsed 
by  a  rage  so  great  as  to  distort  both  his  face 
and  his  figure,  and  standing  in  the  silvery  sea 
of  moonlight  in  the  midst  of  that  lovely  gar 
den,  he  looked  like  some  hideous  snake  coiled 
ready  to  strike.  As  he  started  to  walk  away 
imprecations  and  threats  against  the  Senora 
fell  mumblingly  from  his  lips,  and  looking  up 
and  shaking  his  fist  toward  heaven,  he  swore : 

"  May  God  and  all  the  devils  in  hell  torture 
me,  if  I  do  not  have  revenge ! " 


THEEE 

"  Touch  not  that  maid : 
She  is  a  flower,  and  changeth  but  to  fade. 
Fragrant  is  she  and  fair 
As  any  shape  that  haunts  the  lower  air ; 
In  form  as  graceful  and  as  free 
As  honeysuckles  and  the  lilies  be  ; 
Insensible  and  shrinking  from  caress 
As  flowers  which  you  peril  when  you  press." 

— DOUGLAS  B.  W.  SLADEN. 

ANITA  was  feeding  the  peacocks  in  a  broad 
garden  path ;  their  brilliant  plumage  shone 
with  metallic  lustre  as  they  moved  about  pick 
ing  up  the  grains  scattered  on  the  ground,  or 
reaching  up  to  take  them  from  her  hand.  It 
was  early  morning ;  birds  sang  in  the  trees ; 
clear  drops  of  dew  glistened  like  rubies  on  the 
petals  of  the  flowers. 

Sebastian  from  behind  a  geranium  hedge 
stealthily  watched  the  pretty  scene.  Anita 
finished  feeding  the  birds;  then  she  walked 
down  a  shaded  pathway  toward  the  road.  He 
hurried  on  before  her  and  placed  himself  under 
an  almond  tree,  contriving  as  he  went,  by 
slight  noises  of  his  stick  on  the  hard  path  to 
46 


JUAN  PICO  47 

attract  her  attention.  He  did  not  move  until 
Anita  almost  reached  him.  Then  he  stooped, 
lifted  a  bundle  from  the  ground  at  his  feet 
and  slung  it  over  his  shoulder  from  a  short 
stick.  He  started  as  if  to  walk  away. 

"  Sebastian !  Sebastian !  "  called  Anita, 
"  wait  a  minute." 

The  old  man  paused  and  looked  back. 
Anita  ran  up  to  him  fresh  and  blushing  as  a 
newly  opened  rose.  Her  hair  was  loosely 
coiled  about  her  head,  and  in  it  she  had  placed 
a  dark-red  rose. 

"  Why,  where  are  you  going,  Sebastian  ?  " 

"  To  Los  Angeles." 

"  To  Los  Angeles !  "  repeated  Anita.  Then 
noticing  the  cane  he  carried  in  his  hand,  she 
asked : 

"  Are  you  going  to  walk  all  the  way  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Senorita,"  and  he  began  to  walk  on 
again  with  the  young  girl  beside  him. 

"  Why  do  you  not  take  one  of  the  Senora's 
horses?" 

"  Senora  Gintaris  will  need  them." 

"  Sebastian,  why  are  you  going  to  Los  An 
geles?" 


48  JUAN  PICO 

"  Because  the  Senora  wants  me  to  go." 

"  Los  Angeles.  Oh !  How  I  should  love  to 
see  that  city !  " 

Then  turning  aside  she  said  in  a  whisper : 

"  God  forgive  me  for  wishing  it." 

The  old  man  looked  strangely  at  her,  stepped 
a  little  closer  to  her  and  whispered  : 

"  Why  should  you  not  see  it  ?  " 

"Why  should  she  not?"  The  thought 
flashed  through  her  mind  like  lightning 
through  a  cloud.  Then  she  sighed : 

"Never,  Sebastian,  I  shall  never  see  it. 
The  Senora  will  never  take  me.  And  besides 
it  is  so  far  away.  It  must  be  twenty-five 
miles." 

"  True,  it  is  all  of  that,  but  I  shall  be  there 
before  the  sun  sets." 

"  What  is  it  like,  Sebastian  ?  Are  all  the 
ladies  beautiful  and  are  all  the  men  hand 
some  ?  " 

"  Not  one  of  the  ladies  is  as  beautiful  as  the 
singing  thrush,  and  none  of  them  can  sing  so 
sweetly.  Some  of  the  men  are  handsome,  for 
Juan  Pico  is  there." 

"  Is  he  ?  is  he  ?    Oh,  how  I  should  love  to 


JUAN  PICO  49 

see  him!  Father  Ambrose  loves  him,  the 
Senora — also.  Juan  Pico's  father  is  a  saint, 
and  Juan  Pico  is  surely  a  good  man." 

"  Yes,  Senorita,  he  is  a  good  man,  but  he  is 
very  unhappy." 

"  Unhappy,  Sebastian,  that  is  not  so." 

"  Yes,  I  am  telling  you  the  truth ; "  again  he 
leaned  toward  her,  "  he  is  unhappy  because  he 
cannot  see  you." 

"  But,  why  does  he  not  come  back  again  ?  " 

"  Alas !  The  Senora  has  sent  him  away, 
and  told  him  never  to  come  back.  I  am  going 
to  him." 

"Anyway,  you  will  come  back,  Sebastian, 
and  then  I  shall  hear  about  him." 

"No,  Senorita,  I  shall  never  come  back; 
the  Senora  has  sent  me  away,  also.  I  am 
going  to  serve  Juan  Pico." 

Anita  was  weeping,  she  clasped  her  hands 
together : 

"Are  you  sure  the  Senora  does  not  love 
Juan  Pico?" 

"  I  am  sure ;  she  has  sent  me  away  because 
I  love  him." 

"Then  I  shall  never  see  him,  never  hear 


50  JUAN  PICO 

of  him  any  more."  She  was  crying  distress 
fully. 

"  There  is  one  way,"  he  said,  with  cautious 
emphasis,  "  for  you  to  see  him,  Seiiorita,  come 
with  me  to  Los  Angeles." 

Anita's  frame  trembled,  but  in  an  instant 
her  tears  ceased  falling.  They  had  reached 
the  fence  over  which  a  wild  Muscat  grape 
twined.  Tendrils  of  its  outstretched  branches 
seemed  clingingly  to  embrace  the  child,  as  she 
steadied  herself  by  putting  one  hand  on  a 
thick  branch  of  the  vine. 

"But  I  couldn't,  Sebastian,  the  Senora 
wouldn't  let  me  go." 

"  No,  but  if  I  take  you,  you  can  go  without 
her  consent.  And  when  we  get  to  Juan,  he 
will  be  so  good  to  you  that  the  Senora  will  let 
him  come  to  Otero  ranch  again." 

"Do  you  think  she  would,  Sebastian?" 
asked  Anita,  half  doubtfully. 

"  Of  course  she  would.  And  Juan  will  show 
you  the  city  and  buy  you  everything  you  want." 

"And  would  he  take  me  to  the  sea,  and 
show  me  the  great  ships  sailing  down  to 
Mexico?" 


JUAN  PICO  51 

Sebastian  answered  softly : 

"  Yes,  he  will  show  you  the  great  ships." 

Anita  almost  laughed  as  she  exclaimed : 

"  The  glorious  ships  that  glide  over  the  water 
like  great  white  birds  in  the  air." 

"  Like  birds  in  the  air,"  repeated  Sebastian. 

"  Oh !  I  should  be  so  happy." 

"  Juan  will  take  you  to  the  grand  cathedral 
to  hear  the  music ;  he  will  take  you  out  to  the 
old  San  Gabriel  Mission." 

Anita  looked  like  a  statue  of  happiness. 

"He  will  take  you  up  into  the  mountains 
and  show  you  all  the  city  of  Los  Angeles." 

"There  in  the  churches,  I  will  hear  the 
music  made  by  the  great  golden  organs  that 
the  Senora  has  told  me  of." 

"  Yes,  Senorita ;  and  sometimes  you  and 
Juan  will  spend  a  whole  day  by  the  sea." 

"  And  gather  shells  in  the  sand." 

"Come,  Senorita,  come  with  old  Sebastian. 
Let  us  go  to  Juan.  He  will  no  longer  be  un 
happy  when  you  are  with  him.  Come,  Senor 
ita,  come  to  Juan." 

"  Yes,"  cried  Anita,  her  breast  lifting  with 
her  happy  breath ;  "  I  will  come." 


52  JUAN  PICO 

"  Then  get  your  hat ;  I  will  wait  for  you," 
said  the  old  man  as  he  passed  through  the  gate 
and  sat  down  among  the  flowers  by  the  road. 

Anita  quickly  ran  back  to  the  house.  She 
crossed  the  court  now  full  of  blooming  camel 
lias  and  of  pink  flowering  fuchsias.  How  dif 
ferently  it  all  appeared  than  it  had  yesterday, 
and  yet  the  same  red  geraniums  grew  in  the 
flower  pots,  the  same  linnets  sang  in  the  wicker 
cages,  and  the  maids  were  as  usual  at  work  in 
the  kitchen.  No  one  observed  her.  Hastily 
putting  on  her  hat,  she  glanced  about  the  room, 
as  it  might  have  been  for  the  last  time,  and 
saw  on  a  chair  her  guitar. 

"  I  shall  want  it  in  the  city.  Juan  loves  to 
hear  me  sing  and  play." 

But  she  heard  the  Senora  moving  about  in 
her  own  room ;  the  two  rooms  connected,  the 
Senora  might  see  her,  might  call  to  her.  She 
slipped  the  ribbon  of  the  guitar  over  her  head 
and  ran  noiselessly  from  the  house. 

As  she  neared  the  ranch  gate  a  peacock 
sprang  upon  it  with  a  scream  of  delight.  Fear 
ing  to  frighten  the  pretty  creature,  she  opened 
the  cumbrous  gate  softly,  softly  she  let  it 


JUAN  PICO  53 

swing  to  behind  her.  The  little  singing  thrush 
had  flown  out  of  Otero  ranch. 

Sebastian  was  still  sitting  among  the  flowers ; 
Anita  could  see  his  tall  pointed  sombrero  and 
long  white  beard.  As  she  walked  along  the 
road,  Sebastian  caught  sight  of  her,  got  up  on 
his  feet  and  waited  for  her.  So  young,  so  pure, 
so  gentle,  her  beauty  almost  made  him  pity 
her.  Her  hat  was  an  old  straw  affair,  that 
looked  for  all  the  world  like  a  magpie's  nest. 
From  its  brim  a  few  old  faded  roses  fell,  under 
it  her  cheeks  glowed  and  her  eyes  sparkled 
with  excitement.  A  gown  of  old  faded  blue 
material  came  above  her  ankles.  Short  sleeves 
displayed  her  beautifully  rounded  arms,  and 
the  old  yellow  guitar  swung  from  side  to  side 
as  she  walked  along  through  the  yellow  snap 
dragons  and  wild  mustard. 

Sebastian  was  also  dressed  in  blue,  and  his 
clothes  were  faded  and  torn.  His  soft  white 
beard  reached  well  over  his  breast,  one  hand 
held  the  stick  from  which  hung  the  bundle  on 
his  shoulder,  the  other  held  a  rough  cane. 
Both  these  showed  he  was  traveling,  for  Se 
bastian  had  never  used  a  cane  on  the  ranch, 


54  JUAN  PICO 

They  were  a  curious  couple,  and  had  any 
one  passed  them  on  the  road,  he  would  have 
been  struck  by  the  contrast  between  them,  the 
old  man  so  bent  and  haggard,  the  young  girl 
so  full  of  grace  and  beauty.  Trudging  along 
side  by  side,  were  the  extremes  of  life.  One 
had  seen  too  much  of  the  world,  the  other 
knew  perilously  little  of  it.  Disappointment 
marked  the  face  of  one ;  on  the  face  of  the 
other  were  painted  interest  and  expectation. 

"  Let  me  carry  the  bundle,"  said  Anita. 

"  No,  Senorita ;  it  is  not  heavy." 

"  But  it  will  be  heavy  soon." 

"  Then  we  will  rest.  We  will  take  a  long 
rest  over  in  the  canon  by  the  stream.  It  is 
a  beautiful  canon.  All  along  by  the  water 
grow  the  tall  blue  larkspur  and  the  mariposa 
lily." 

"  And  I  will  sing  and  play  for  you.  Let  us 
go  to  the  canon  now." 

"Not  yet,  not  yet,  it  is  three  miles  away." 

"  O,  Sebastian,  let  us  hurry.  I  want  to  see 
the  canon  and  I  am  very  thirsty.  You  walk 
so  slowly.  See,  I  am  always  ahead  of  you." 

"  I  will  try  and  walk  faster," 


JUAN  PICO  55 

"  Forgive  me,"  said  the  girl.  "  I  know  you 
are  old." 

"  Ah,  Senorita,  my  body  is  old,  but  my  heart 
is  young,  young  while  you  are  near  me.  If 
you  are  gay,  I  will  be  happy.  Do  not  be  sad, 
Senorita." 

"I  will  be  always  gay,"  laughed  Anita, 
looking  back. 

Neither  complained,  though  the  sun  climbed 
high  in  the  burning  heaven,  and  the  dazzling 
heat  flickered  before  them.  Anita  went  in 
advance  ;  she  gathered  flowers,  that,  dropping 
from  her  overladen  arms  were  crushed  beneath 
the  heavy  feet  of  Sebastian. 

New  life  seemed  to  flow  through  Sebastian's 
veins.  And  he  longed  to  take  the  young  girl 
in  his  arms  and  caress  her.  Regrets  swept 
over  him  like  a  tidal  wave,  as  overwhelming  a 
phantom  of  happiness  that  had  come  too  late. 
Why  had  this  vision  of  loveliness  come  into  his 
life  now  ?  What  curse  was  upon  him  ?  These 
were  his  thoughts  and  reflections.  He  muttered 
in  his  beard. 

"What  did  you  say,  Sebastian?"  askecl 
Anita,  who  almost  caught  his  words. 


56  JUAN  PICO 

"Nothing,  Seiiorita,  nothing;  I  was  only 
thinking." 

"Were  you  thinking  of  the  great  white- 
winged  ships  that  go  sailing  down  to  Mex 
ico  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  thinking  of  the  ships  that  sailed  away, 
and  never  came  back  again." 

"How  strange  you  look,  Sebastian.  Are 
you  tired  ?  Shall  I  sing  to  you  ?  " 

"No,  not  now.  Wait  until  we  are  in  the 
canon,  then  the  music  will  all  be  ours  and  the 
birds.  Over  there,  the  trees  will  be  large  and 
shady,  and  we  will  sit  on  a  bed  of  ferns ;  and 
there  you  can  gather  the  white  iris  out  of  the 
pools." 

"  Is  that  the  place  where  it  grows  ?  " 

"Yes,  there  little  Miguel  always  goes  to 
gather  it  for  the  Seiiora." 

"  Do  you  know  what  the  Senora  says  the 
iris  means  ?  " 

"  No,  what  does  it  mean,  Seiiorita  ?  " 

"  It  means  the  eye  of  heaven,"  answered  the 
girl,  reverently,  "  and  it  is  beautiful  enough  to 
be  likened  to  the  eye  of  heaven,  is  it  not  ?  " 

They  crossed  the  road  and  followed  a  foot- 


JUAN  PICO  57 

path  which  went  along  the  edge  of  a  hill. 
The  path  led  directly  into  the  canon.  They 
were  traveling  southward,  and  the  low  hills 
known  as  the  mesa  lay  before  them.  As  they 
drew  nearer  to  the  canon,  the  great  trees 
wandered  out  to  meet  them,  and  to  offer  their 
cool,  refreshing  shade.  The  little  silvery  brook 
laughed  over  the  pebbles,  and  bathed  the  roots 
of  the  reeds  and  rushes  along  its  banks.  A 
soft  breeze  murmured  through  the  leafy 
shadows  of  the  trees  whose  tall  tops,  only, 
were  touched  by  the  sun.  Great  moss-covered 
rocks  hung  from  the  sides  of  the  canon,  and 
from  their  crevices  large  plume-like  ferns 
depended.  There  was  a  feeling  of  magic  in 
the  air.  To  Anita,  it  was  fairyland,  or  the 
realization  of  a  dream.  Further  and  further 
into  the  canon  they  followed  the  little  stream. 
Anita  running  hither  and  thither,  gathered 
the  fairest  flowers  in  the  glen.  Her  old  straw 
hat  was  now  filled  with  "  Eyes  of  Heaven," 
and  on  her  breast  was  a  spray  of  camellias. 
Into  old  Sebastian's  beard  she  had  braided  the 
spotless  blossoms  of  the  blood-root.  He  was 
transported  beyond  himself.  He  was  no 


68  JUAN  PICO 

longer  the  Sebastian  of  yesterday.  This  wild 
fantastic  child  of  nature  had  fascinated  him. 
He  watched  her  every  movement  as  a  serpent 
watches  the  thing  it  will  devour.  The  sway 
ing  of  her  graceful  form  among  the  trees, 
the  ripple  of  her  merry  laugh  caused  every 
fibre  in  his  body  to  leap  with  joy.  If  she 
passed  from  his  view,  he  would  run  after  her, 
pushing  the  thick  tangled  branches  aside  and 
sometimes  stumbling  in  his  haste.  As  one  who 
is  intoxicated  forgets  the  kind  of  man  he  is, 
so  Sebastian  forgot  his  hideous  past. 

"  Senorita  !  Senorita  ! " 

He  called,  but  she  did  not  answer.  She 
was  hiding,  only  to  surprise  him  a  moment 
later,  when  she  came  bounding  from  behind  a 
rock  with  a  long  spray  of  passion  flowers 
twisted  round  and  round  her  waist  like  a 
girdle,  and  falling  to  her  feet.  The  old  man 
threw  himself  upon  the  ground.  Anita  flung 
herself  into  a  wild  dance  before  him.  Her 
graceful  form  floated  before  his  eager  eyes. 
At  first,  she  danced  slowly,  only  her  arms 
moving  perceptibly;  then  swiftly  advancing 
and  retreating,  she  began  to  spring  and  wheel 


JUAN  PICO  59 

about  him,  and  all  the  while  her  silvery  voice 
was  ringing  in  the  trees.  Each  time  she  came 
near,  she  threw  a  wild  passion  flower  at  his 
feet.  His  mind  reeled.  He  rose  excitedly  to 
his  feet.  He  ran  toward  her,  but  she  darted 
into  the  trees,  and  was  gone.  Only  the  ring 
ing  of  her  joyous  laugh  echoed  around  him ; 
now  near,  now  far ;  now  on  one  side  of  the 
brook,  and  now  on  the  other. 

It  was  a  moment  of  extreme  happiness  for 
both.  Sebastian  had  experienced  no  such  be 
witching  sensation  in  all  his  life.  In  his  youth 
he  had  seen  great  dancers  on  the  stage  in  the 
City  of  Mexico.  He  had  heard  the  greatest 
prima  donna  that  ever  lived,  while  in  San 
Francisco,  but  this  was  the  very  acme  of  all 
that  he  had  ever  heard  or  seen.  It  was  an 
experience  to  be  remembered  until  death 
should  claim  him  forever.  Into  his  cunning 
brain  came  the  thought : 

"  What  would  the  theatres  of  the  big  cities 
not  give  for  such  an  attraction  ?  But  no  one 
shall  know  that  Anita  can  dance.  That  shall 
be  for  my  eyes  alone." 

A  new  world  had  opened  up  before  him. 


60  JUAN  PICO 

Like  wine  to  a  drunkard  dying  of  thirst,  the 
strange  indescribable  exhilaration  of  youth 
came  surging  back  through  his  veins.  Suddenly 
he  drew  his  white  brows  together  in  anger ;  he 
muttered  a  thousand  curses  upon  himself  and 
upon  his  age.  Then  he  burst  out  with  the 
words : 

"  "Why  am  I  no  longer  young  ?  Why  am  I 
not  like  Juan  Pico  ?  "  After  a  moment  his  ex 
pression  changed,  he  looked  craftily  about, 
then  he  laughed  aloud  :  "  Ha !  ha !  What  a 
fool  I  would  have  been  if  I  had  not  changed 
my  mind.  Yes,  Sebastian,  look  out  for  your 
self,  first.  The  world  owes  you  the  debt  of 
a  lifetime,  here  is  your  chance  for  payment. 
Take  it.  But  if  you  want  to  collect  it,  don't 
let  her  see  Juan  Pico  again."  He  looked 
down  at  his  withered  limbs,  and  he  thought  of 
Juan  Pico,  full  of  life  and  energy.  A  look  of 
determination  crossed  his  face,  "Why  should 
I  not  be  the  same  ?  I  will— I  will !  " 

Fate  had  been  cruel  to  him.  With  wrath 
he  looked  back  upon  the  irony  of  time. 
Though  he  gazed  at  his  three  score  years  with 
all  the  bitterness  of  which  his  degraded  and 


JUAN  PICO  61 

merciless  disposition  was  capable,  he  was  no 
longer  hopeless.  In  his  excitement  he  did  not 
forget  the  revenge  he  was  to  wreak  upon  Se- 
nora  Gintaris. 

While  he  pondered  over  these  thoughts 
Anita  returned  and  sat  down  beside  him.  He 
opened  his  bundle  and  took  out  a  lunch. 

"  Shall  we  stay  in  the  canon  all  day,  Se- 
norita  ?  It  is  so  cool  and  beautiful." 

"  No,  Sebastian,  it  will  soon  get  dark,  and  I 
want  to  see  Juan." 

"  Yery  well,  then,  we  will  follow  the  trail 
and  pass  along  the  other  side  of  the  moun 
tain.  It  will  be  shady  there,  for  the  sun 
is  now  beginning  to  cast  a  shadow.  "We 
will  walk  slowly,  for  the  trail  is  hard  in 
places." 

"  I  shall  not  mind  it,  Sebastian,  and  if  you 
are  tired  you  shall  lean  on  me." 

The  old  man  was  sitting  close  beside  her ;  he 
now  took  her  hand  in  his,  saying : 

"I  shall  buy  a  pretty  ring  for  the  little 
thrush  when  we  get  to  Los  Angeles,  a  plain 
gold  ring  like  the  Senora's." 

"Why,   Sebastian!"  she    said,  rising  and 


62  JUAN  PICO 

drawing  her  hand  away,  "do  the  unmarried 
ladies  in  the  city  wear  rings  ?  " 

"  Some  do,"  replied  the  old  man. 

"But,  Sebastian,  we  must  hurry  to  Juan. 
Come,  he  will  be  so  happy  to  see  me,  and  I 
will  sing  and  dance  for  him  in  Los  Angeles." 

Then  she  ran  along,  alternately  hurrying  on 
in  advance,  and  waiting  for  the  old  man  to 
catch  up  with  her.  Sebastian  with  eyes  fixed 
in  their  sockets  followed  her  as  quickly  as  he 
could.  Thus  without  looking  back  they  left 
the  flowery  quietude  behind  them. 


FOUK 

"  Sad  is  our  youth,  for  it  is  ever  going, 

Crumbling  away  beneath  our  very  feet ; 
Sad  is  our  life,  for  onward  it  is  flowing 
In  current  unperceived,  because  so  fleet." 

—AUBREY  DE  VERB. 

"  SEBASTIAN,  how  soon  shall  we  be  in  Los 
Angeles?" 

"  We  shall  be  there  to-morrow." 

"  To-morrow  ?  to-morrow !  If  we  hurry  can 
we  not  be  there  to-night  ?  " 

"No." 

"  O,  Sebastian  !  And  I  am  so  tired,  I  can 
not  walk  much  longer.  Let  us  go  home.  I 
did  not  know  it  was  such  a  long  walk  to  Los 
Angeles." 

"  You  could  not  walk  back  to  Otero  ranch 
to-night.  It  is  too  far,  besides,  you  would  lose 
your  way  alone." 

"  How  far  are  we  from  home,  Sebastian  ?  " 

"Fifteen  miles." 

"  Fifteen  miles,"  she  repeated  mournfully. 
63 


64  JUAN  PICO 

"  What  a  long  way.  Do  you  think  they  have 
forgotten  to  water  the  azaleas  and  the  gera 
niums  ?  " 

"  No,  Senorita,  nothing  has  been  forgotten." 

Pretty  soon  she  asked : 

"  Where  are  we  going  ?  Must  we  walk  all 
night?" 

"  We  are  going  to  San  Fernando." 

"Is  it  as  large  a  place  as  San  Buenaven 
tura?" 

"  No,  but  it  is  much  more  beautiful.  The 
streets  are  wide  and  the  waving  pepper  trees 
grow  there." 

They  trudged  along  silently,  and  as  they 
walked  side  by  side,  Anita  had  a  feeling  come 
over  her  of  respect,  almost  of  tenderness  to 
ward  the  old  man.  She  had  sudden  impulses 
of  longing  to  speak  to  him,  as  to  a  father,  but 
the  words  always  stopped  in  her  throat,  and 
she  said  nothing.  After  a  sharp  turn  in  the 
road,  they  came  out  from  under  the  trees. 
Sebastian  stepped  close  to  her,  saying : 

"Senorita,  these  are  the  ruins  of  the  old 
San  Fernando  Mission." 

Anita  looked  at  its  solemn  arches  and  grace- 


JUAN  PICO  65 

ful  turrets  etched  clearly  against  the  steel-like 
sky,  and  at  the  pale  white  nioon  now  illuminat 
ing  the  deserted  corridors  that  lay  hushed  in 
everlasting  silence.  Years  had  come  and  gone 
since  chanting  and  prayer  had  rung  through 
these  ruined  spaces. 

"  When  I  was  a  boy,  the  Padres  spent  their 
happy  days  here.  I  remember  a  grand  cele 
bration  when  priests  came  down  from  San 
Miguel,  and  up  from  San  Diego.  They  were 
dressed  in  gorgeous  vestments  brought  all  the 
way  from  Spain,  silk  robes  embroidered  in 
gold  and  silver  and  precious  stones.  Crosses 
of  pure  gold  glistened  on  their  backs.  The 
Saviour's  hands  were  nailed  to  embroidered 
crosses  with  nails  of  uncut  amethysts.  In 
their  bare  feet  they  walked,  singing :  *  Holy, 
Holy,  Holy,  Lord  God  Almighty.'  I  had 
never  seen  anything  so  wonderful  before. 
Then  the  country  was  wild  and  unsettled, 
but  every  one  for  miles  and  miles  around  came 
to  the  celebration.  That  was  before  the  dis 
covery  of  gold,  and  every  one  was  happy." 

Anita  sighed  deeply.  Yague  thoughts  came 
to  her,  but  the  words  in  which  to  form  them, 


66  JUAN  PICO 

like  the  language  of  dreams,  remained  unborn 
upon  her  lips.  At  last  she  said  meditatively : 

"  Yes,  Sebastian,  I  have  heard  the  Senora 
tell  how  happy  the  Padres  were.  She  said 
they  were  happy  because  they  were  good." 

"  Happy  because  they  were  good,"  repeated 
Sebastian,  and  he  began  to  walk  wearily,  but 
unconscious  of  his  weariness,  for  his  thoughts 
were  back  in  the  past,  reviewing  the  vividly 
gaudy  pageant  that  had  delighted  his  boy 
ish  eyes.  The  memory  of  it  brought  a  fleet 
ing  pleasure  to  his  childish  age.  He  became 
steeped  in  a  temporary  forgetfulness  of  the 
present  until  Anita  spoke,  rousing  him  from 
his  revery. 

"  Do  you  think  they  have  forgotten  to  feed 
the  peacocks  ?  " 

"No,  Seiiorita,  they  have  forgotten  noth 
ing." 

"I  wonder  if  they  have  gathered  fresh 
flowers  for  the  Virgin." 

"  They  have  forgotten  nothing,  I  tell  you." 
And  there  was  a  tone  of  disapproval  in  his 
voice. 

Anita  looked  at  him  resentfully.    But  he 


JUAN  PICO  67 

seemed  so  old  and  miserable  that  she  for 
got  his  peevish  reply  and  felt  for  him  only 
pity.  A  strange  feeling  of  sadness  had  fallen 
on  Sebastian  in  which  his  soul  congealed. 
His  hollow  chest  was  racked  by  painful 
gasps. 

"  Sebastian,  what  is  the  matter  ?  are  you  as 
tired  as  I  am  ?  I  wish  we  were  at  home ! " 

"  The  Senorita  must  be  happy  and  not  look 
back,  for  to-morrow  we  will  be  in  the  great 
city  and  go  down  to  the  sea." 

"  Then  we  will  go  to  Juan  ? "  said  Anita, 
brightening  up  and  almost  ready  to  laugh 
again. 

Sebastian  did  not  reply  at  once;  then  he 
said  slowly : 

"  Perhaps ; "  his  voice  sounded  like  the  mel 
ancholy  ringing  of  a  bell  whose  vibrations  die 
in  lifeless  air. 

"Perhaps?  perhaps?"  asked  Anita,  anx 
iously,  "  do  you  not  know  where  he  is  ?  " 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Sebastian,  "he  is  in  the 
city,  but  it  is  a  large  place ;  you  must  be  pa 
tient,  Senorita,  patient " — 

"  O,  Sebastian,  I  thought  we  were  going  to 


68  JUAN  PICO 

him  as  soon  as  we  got  there.  Don't  you  know 
where  to  find  him  ?  " 

"I  don't  know  just  where  he  is, — but  we 
will  find  him." 

Anita  put  her  hand  to  her  breast,  then 
screamed. 

"What  is  it,  Senorita?  what  has  hap 
pened?"  exclaimed  the  old  man,  trembling 
and  catching  her  by  the  arm. 

"I  have  lost  my  rosary!"  she  cried,  and 
burst  into  tears. 

"  Oh,  do  not  mind  that,  Senorita ;  I  will  buy 
you  another  when  we  get  to  Los  Angeles." 

"  You  can't  buy  another  like  it ;  the  beads 
were  of  pure  gold  and  the  crucifix  was  of 
ivory.  The  Seiiora  gave  it  to  me  on  my  birth 
day.  Oh,  what  shall  I  do  ?  what  shall  I  do 
without  it  ?  " 

"  Do  not  cry  about  it,  learn  to  be  a  woman  ; 
you  do  not  want  to  be  thought  a  baby." 
Sebastian's  voice  sounded  harshly  in  Anita's 
ears,  and  she  longed  for  Senora  Gintaris.  Her 
sense  of  desolation  was  increased  by  her  loss ; 
oh,  if  Juan  were  only  near !  It  seemed  to  her 
as  if  the  world  was  falling,  with  things  pres- 


JUAN  PICO  69 

ent  and  things  to  come,  into  the  very  bottom 
of  a  wretched  void,  of  which,  for  the  first  time 
in  her  life,  she  was  aware.  Now,  Sebastian 
walked  in  advance.  She  wept  as  if  her  heart 
would  break,  remembering  her  vow  to  Seiiora 
Gintaris  that  she  would  never  part  with  the 
rosary,  and  she  longed  to  retrace  every  step 
of  the  way  searching  for  it  until  she  should 
find  it. 

"  Sebastian,  it  must  be  over  in  the  canon ; 
can  we  not  go  back  and  look  for  it  ?  " 

"  No,  Senorita ;  it  is  too  far,  and  by  this 
time  some  one  must  have  picked  it  up." 

In  spite  of  her  grief  Anita  was  beginning  to 
feel  angry,  and  possibly  a  little  frightened. 
How  dreadful  it  was  away  from  the  Senora, 
how  strangely  Sebastian  looked  and  how 
dared  he  speak  to  her  like  that  ?  They  walked 
on  toward  San  Fernando.  It  was  growing 
late.  Not  a  light  was  to  be  seen,  nor  any 
wayfarer.  The  wide  street  stretching  through 
the  town  was  shaded  by  pepper  trees  of  enor 
mous  growth,  just  as  Sebastian  had  said,  but 
Anita  was  too  unhappy  to  look  at  them.  They 
traversed  the  length  of  this  street,  and  came 


70  JUAN  PICO 

to  where  the  houses  were  at  long  distances 
from  each  other. 

"  Come,  Senorita,  here  is  where  we  will  stay 
to-night,"  said  Sebastian,  halting  before  a  low 
rambling  adobe  with  a  red-tiled  roof.  It  formed 
three  sides  of  a  square,  in  the  centre  of  which 
was  a  small  court  almost  completely  shaded  by 
a  great  pepper  tree,  whose  waving  branches 
were  filled  with  exquisite  red  berries.  The 
house  itself  set  back  from  the  street  about 
twenty  feet,  the  walk  leading  to  it  was  lined 
with  pink  flowering  oleanders  now  grown 
to  trees,  and  its  front  wall  was  covered  with 
a  vining  heliotrope,  that  exhaled  its  delicious 
perfume  into  the  night  air.  Along  one  side  of 
the  house  there  was  a  rude  bench. 

"  Here,  Senorita,"  motioned  Sebastian,  "  sit 
down  here  until  I  come  back." 

"  Do  not  be  long,  will  you,  Sebastian  ?  "  said 
Anita,  fearing  to  be  alone.  Soon  she  heard 
him  rapping  loudly  at  the  door.  In  a  few  mo 
ments  she  heard  some  one  making  a  light,  and 
a  woman's  voice,  such  a  voice  as  made  Anita 
tremble,  called : 

"Who  is  there?" 


JUAN  PICO  71 

"  It  is  I,  Sebastian,"  was  his  reply. 

"  Sebastian  who  ?  "  she  called. 

"  Sebastian  Carmelo." 

Anita  heard  the  heavy  bolts  withdrawn ;  Se 
bastian  walked  into  the  house,  and  the  door 
was  closed.  Alone  and  in  the  darkness,  Anita 
feared  she  knew  not  what.  All  was  silent ;  to 
Anita  it  seemed  an  age  before  the  woman 
opened  the  door  and  called : 

"  Come  in,  my  girl." 

The  woman  stood  partly  concealed  by  the 
door,  which  she  closed  and  bolted  as  soon  as 
Anita  stepped  inside.  By  the  light  of  a  candle 
thrust  into  a  bottle,  Anita  saw  first  the  knotted 
bony  hand  that  held  it,  then  the  yet  more 
hideous  hand  that  shaded  the  flickering  light 
from  the  draught.  Lifting  her  eyes  she  saw 
in  the  sickly  glow  a  face  deeply  furrowed  as 
though  by  physical  pain,  a  tangled  mass  of 
grey  and  black  hair  falling  over  uneven  shoul 
ders,  bloodshot  eyes  protruding  like  the  eyes 
of  a  bug,  and  two  great  decayed  tusks  showing 
as  she  mechanically  opened  and  shut  her  ulcer 
ous  mouth. 

Anita  experienced  a  spasm  of  terror;  her 


72  JUAN  PICO 

blood  ran  cold  in  her  veins,  and  she  would 
have  cried  aloud  had  not  Sebastian  come 
toward  her  from  the  deep  shadow  of  the  hall. 

"  O,  Sebastian,  take  me  away,"  she  gasped, 
but  he  merely  took  her  hand,  saying : 

"  Anita,  do  not  be  frightened,  for  your  father 
will  take  care  of  you." 

The  woman  laughed  shrilly,  "  Yes,  yes,  the 
little  one  must  do  all  that  her  father  says ;  he 
will  be  so  kind  to  her.  Ha!  Ha!"  Her  coarse 
voice  rang  through  the  empty  hall.  "  Come 
this  way." 

A  terrible  trembling  shook  Anita ;  she  tried 
to  speak.  Her  throat  was  choked ;  she  looked 
pitifully  at  Sebastian  and  avoided  the  touch  of 
the  old  woman. 

"Go  with  her,  Anita,"  said  Sebastian,  au 
thoritatively. 

Anita,  struck  with  astonishment  at  his  man 
ner,  tried  to  speak;  then  unable  and  over 
whelmed,  she  followed  the  old  woman  into  a 
room  leading  out  of  the  hall.  Anita's  eyes 
darted  to  the  windows  through  which  she  saw 
the  trees  magnificently  green  standing  in  the 
moonlight  splashed  here  and  there  with  white 


JUAN  PICO  73 

acacia  blossoms.  Within,  she  surveyed  a 
small,  rudely  furnished  room,  whose  low  ceil 
ing  appeared  to  be  falling  in  with  a  heavy 
weight  overhead.  Most  of  the  paper  had  been 
stripped  from  the  wall.  Sebastian  stepped  into 
the  room  after  them,  and  taking  the  candle 
from  the  old  woman,  looked  carefully  about. 
Anita's  face  was  blanched  with  fear;  tears 
glistened  in  her  large,  blue  eyes.  Sebastian 
looked  at  her  with  an  air  of  cunning  satisfac 
tion,  then  set  the  candle  on  the  mantel-shelf 
before  a  rude  picture  of  the  dying  Christ. 
Even  in  the  partial  light,  and  though  he  had 
ceased  to  look  directly  at  her,  he  felt  the  glow 
of  Anita's  eyes  that  rose  toward  him  with  ex 
pressions  of  astonishment,  of  reproach,  of  anger. 
The  blood  began  to  surge  in  her  cheeks.  She 
stood  helpless.  Sebastian  felt  the  air  luke 
warm,  suave,  intoxicating,  as  if  the  climate  had 
suddenly  changed.  On  the  hearth  the  white 
cricket  which  brings  good  luck,  was  making 
his  shrill  unpleasant  music.  Sebastian  came 
toward  Anita,  who  had  not  ceased  to  tremble ; 
she  was  afraid  of  the  place,  and  of  the  woman, 
and  there  was  something  in  his  look  that  made 


74  JUAN  PICO 

her  fear  him,  also ;  she  shrank  away  from  him, 
but  he  grasped  her  in  his  arms  and  violently 
pressed  his  thin  purple  lips  to  hers.  She 
screamed  and  struggled;  Sebastian  released 
her,  and  without  a  word  fled  from  the  room. 

In  the  hall  outside,  the  old  woman  was  ex 
claiming  : 

"  Sebastian,  what  are  you  doing  to  your 
daughter  ?  "  Her  broken  cachinations  sounded 
like  the  merriment  of  a  lost  soul. 

Anita,  pierced  with  shame,  stood  humiliated ; 
the  senses  of  a  girl  of  thirteen  count  for  little, 
but  she  dreaded  him.  She  was  not  his  daugh 
ter.  He  had  no  right  to  kiss  her. 

"O,  madre  mi,"  she  said,  "madre  mi,  madre 
mi,  if  I  could  only  be  with  you  again !  I  would 
never  go  away  again.  If  I  do  not  find  Juan, 
I  shall  die." 

Tears  dried  in  her  burning  eyes  that  stared 
upon  the  picture  of  the  Christ.  She  tried  to 
pray,  and  again  she  felt  for  her  lost  rosary. 
Then  she  fell  upon  the  bed.  At  last  tears 
came,  and  dreadful  sobs.  All  other  sounds 
were  hushed  in  this  terrible  house,  and  outside 
no  leaf  stirred,  no  bird  sang.  While  she  lay 


JUAN  PICO  75 

passionately  weeping,  she  heard  a  vehicle 
coming  and  raised  up  with  a  cry  for  help  upon 
her  lips,  but  the  horses  at  a  furious  rate  dashed 
by  and  she  sank  back  upon  the  pillow.  Too 
soon  the  sound  became  only  an  echo.  Then 
even  that  was  gone  and  stillness  prevailed. 

Afraid  of  those  in  the  house  and  more  afraid 
of  what  might  lie  hidden  in  the  shadows  with 
out,  she  lay  suffering  from  terror  and  exhaus 
tion  until  soft-footed  sleep  crept  in,  and  pity 
ing  her,  took  her  in  her  arms  and  showed  her 
pictures  of  Juan  and  of  Los  Angeles. 


FIVE 

"  The  face  which,  duly  as  the  sun, 
Rose  up  for  me  with  life  begun, 
To  mark  all  bright  hours  of  the  day 
With  hourly  love,  is  dimmed  away  " — 

— ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING. 

SENOKA  GINTAKIS  was  impatiently  walking 
up  and  down  the  veranda,  looking  in  the  direc 
tion  of  the  stables. 

"  Here  is  your  coffee,  Seiiora,"  said  Dolores. 

"Put  it  down,  and  go  water  the  azaleas," 
replied  the  Senora,  as  she  seated  herself  on  the 
edge  of  her  chair  and  hastily  sipped  the  coffee. 

Dolores  passed  along  the  veranda,  which 
was  bordered  by  a  thick  carpet  of  purple 
violets.  Soon  she  returned  with  a  watering- 
can,  and  carefully  refreshed,  one  by  one,  the 
azaleas  and  also  the  geraniums,  whose  thick, 
felt-like  leaves  drooped  for  the  day  had  been 
sultry.  Then  she  gave  the  linnets  fresh  water. 
Senora  Gintaris  glanced  toward  the  maid  : 

"  Do  not  forget  a  fresh  bunch  of  camellias 
for  the  Virgin,  Dolores." 
7$ 


JUAN  PICO  77 

"  No,  Senora ; "  she  began  to  pick  a  bouquet 
of  cape  jasmin.  Dolores  could  not  remember 
a  day  ever  having  passed  without  fresh  flowers 
being  gathered  and  placed  before  the  porce 
lain  statuette  of  the  Virgin. 

It  was  said  that  when  the  Senora's  brother, 
Don  Carlos,  had  gone  to  the  war,  she  had 
made  a  vow  to  the  Virgin,  that  if  she  guarded 
and  brought  him  home  safely,  a  fresh  bouquet 
should  daily  be  placed  at  her  feet.  At  the 
close  of  the  war,  Don  Carlos,  hearty  and  well, 
returned  to  his  home  in  Monterey,  and  the 
Senora  kept  her  vow,  usually  attending  to  the 
flowers  herself,  always  selecting  the  finest  in 
blossom  on  the  ranch  and  preferably  the  white 
ones. 

Delicate  wax-like  camellias  were  the  Senora's 
favorite  flowers  and  these  she  had  cultivated 
in  a  separate  part  of  the  garden.  Whenever 
any  one  from  the  ranch  went  up  to  Santa 
Barbara,  she  always  sent  to  the  nuns  at  the 
convent  there,  a  large  bunch  of  these  exquis 
ite  flowers.  It  was  a  long  drive  to  Santa 
Barbara,  but  the  Senora  knew  how  to  pack 
flowers  properly. 


78  JUAN  PICO 

Before  she  had  finished  drinking  the  coffee, 
the  Senora's  alert  ear  heard  the  rolling  of  a 
carriage.  Quickly  she  passed  down  the  front 
path,  and  reached  the  gate  just  as  Pedro  drew 
rein  on  the  horses.  Stepping  into  the  phaeton, 
she  said : 

"  Are  you  sure  Sebastian  said  he  was  going 
to  Los  Angeles  ?  " 

"Yes,  Senora." 

"Then  drive  with  all  haste;  if  possible,  I 
must  be  there  by  midnight." 

"Yes,  Senora." 

It  was  now  about  eight  o'clock  and  daylight 
and  dark  had  dissolved  themselves  into  a 
pretty  twilight.  A  pale  grey  scarf  of  mist 
dragged  itself  lazily  over  the  meadows,  and 
the  hills  looked  like  dim  shadows.  The  road 
avoided  the  hills  and  canons,  and  kept  well 
into  the  broad,  sweeping  meadows.  On  either 
side  well-kept  ranches  stretched  for  miles.  In 
the  distance  could  be  seen  the  fields  of  tall 
pampas  grass  and  the  low  hills  covered  with 
Muscat  grapes.  A  fairer  and  more  prosperous 
stretch  of  country  could  not  be  found  in  all 
California. 


JUAN  PICO  79 

Hardly  had  they  traversed  a  mile,  when 
they  saw  a  man  standing  in  the  middle  of  the 
road  examining  something  he  had  just  picked 
up.  As  they  were  passing  him  the  Senora 
saw  that  the  object  was  a  rosary.  Calling  to 
Pedro  to  stop,  she  addressed  the  stranger : 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  but  will  you  allow  me 
to  see  that  rosary  ?  " 

"  Yes,  madam,"  replied  the  man,  handing  it 
to  her.  "  I  found  it  half  buried  in  the  dust." 

The  Senora's  heart  leaped;  it  was  Anita's 
rosary.  It  was  a  beautiful  affair  with  its 
beads  of  gold  and  its  pure  white  ivory  crucifix, 
and  the  Senora  doubly  prized  it  for  it  had 
originally  been  given  to  her  by  her  school 
friend,  Sister  Magdalen,  at  the  convent  in 
San  Luis  Obispo. 

"  My  good  man,  this  belongs  to  my  daugh 
ter,  who  has,  I  think,  lately  passed  this  way. 
May  I  return  it  to  her  ?  " 

The  stranger  hesitated : 

"  Madam,  I  am  poor  and  hungry.  Is  it  not 
worth  a  few  pennies  to  buy  something  to  eat  ?  " 

A  look  of  compassion  came  into  the  Senora's 
eyes  as  she  replied : 


80  JUAN  PICO 

"  Below  here,  about  a  mile,  you  will  come  to 
Otero  ranch ;  stop  there,  ask  for  Dolores,  and 
tell  her  that  Senora  Gintaris  directs  her  to 
give  you  some  dinner,  and  to  provide  you 
with  quarters  for  the  night." 

"God  bless  you,  madam,  may  the  saints 
protect  you." 

Senora  Gintaris  motioned  Pedro  to  drive 
on.  Over  the  mesa  the  moon  came  up  and 
spread  its  ghostly  glow  along  the  dusty  road. 
From  the  wild  rosebushes  issued  the  songs  of 
nightingales,  and  occasionally  in  the  distance 
could  be  heard  the  plaintive  notes  of  the 
whippoorwill.  Under  the  horses'  hoofs  the 
road  glided  away  and  became  a  great  cloud 
of  dust.  Now  and  then,  lights  appeared  and 
disappeared  in  ranch-houses  along  the  way. 
Nothing  escaped  the  Senora.  They  wrere 
more  than  half-way  on  their  journey  when 
they  came  to  a  house,  protected  on  the  north 
by  a  tall  hedge  of  gloomy  cypress  trees,  and 
across  the  road  was  a  grove  of  apricots.  Di 
rectly  behind  the  house  was  a  large  barn. 
Pedro  drove  into  the  yard  and  pulled  up  the 
horses.  The  Senora  alighted.  Travelers  us- 


JUAN  PICO  81 

ually  stopped  here,  for  it  was  the  only  com 
fortable  public  house  between  San  Buena 
ventura  and  Los  Angeles.  It  was  a  sort  of 
hotel,  saloon  and  store  combined. 

Mrs.  Lee,  wife  of  the  proprietor,  hurried  to 
the  door,  carrying  a  lantern  in  one  hand  and 
her  crutch  in  the  other.  With  her  came  four 
or  five  dogs  that  set  up  a  perfect  bedlam  of 
barking. 

"  Down,  Spanko,"  said  the  woman,  striking 
at  one  of  the  dogs  with  her  crutch.  "  Good- 
evening,  Seiiora  Gintaris,  come  this  way, 
please." 

The  Senora  bowed  and  followed  the  land 
lady  to  the  piazza,  sinking  wearily  into  the 
proffered  chair. 

Coming  from  the  barn,  the  men  began  to 
talk  to  Pedro  and  to  rub  down  the  horses  that 
were  nervously  pawing  the  ground.  Pedro 
went  into  the  saloon  and  ordered  a  pint  of  wine. 

"  Will  you  have  something  to  eat,  Senora  ?  " 
asked  Mrs.  Lee. 

"  No,  thank  you,  I  am  only  stopping  for  a 
few  moments  to  refresh  the  horses.  I  expect 
to  reach  Los  Angeles  by  midnight." 


82  JUAN  PICO 

"That  you  will,  Senora;  the  road  is  good 
all  the  way  except  for  a  mile  or  two  near  San 
Fernando.  But  won't  you  have  a  glass  of 
wine  ?  It  would  refresh  you." 

Senora  Gintaris  consented,  "  Yes,  bring  me 
a  glass  of  the  best  port  you  have." 

"When  Mrs.  Lee  returned  with  the  wine, 
Senora  Gintaris  slowly  inquired : 

"Does  your  husband's  health  continue  to 
improve,  Mrs.  Lee  ?  " 

"Yes,  thank  you,  Senora.  He  is  not  the 
same  man  since  we  moved  here  from  Illinois." 

"  I  am  glad  of  that.  It  is  hard  to  live  with 
out  health." 

"Yes,  we  have  much  to  be  thankful  for. 
But  California  is  not  home  to  us." 

"  You  do  not  like  it  here  ?  " 

"  Well,  we  like  the  climate,  but  what's  that 
when  you've  left  all  your  folks  behind  ?  " 

"True,  life  holds  little  without  friends. 
Yet  you  have  your  children." 

"  That's  the  worst  part  of  being  here ;  we've 
had  to  take  them  from  school,  to  say  nothing 
of  almost  burying  them  alive  in  this  place." 

"  Still,  I  should  imagine  it  ought  not  to  be  so 


JUAN  PICO  63 

very  lonely  here.  You  see  many  travelers,  do 
you  not  ?  " 

"  Only  of  a  Sunday ;  then  people  drive  out 
from  Los  Angeles.  But  few  people  stop  here 
during  the  week.  We're  not  located  right; 
we're  too  near  for  some,  and  then  again  for 
others,  too  far  away.  I  often  wish  we  were 
back  in  Illinois.  But,  I  suppose,  health  must 
be  thought  of  first." 

"Yes,  health  must  be  considered  before 
everything.  But  you  do  well  here,  do  you 
not?" 

"Why,  Senora,  there  is  no  money  in  this 
place.  I  tell  you  honestly  we  give  away  more 
meals  than  we  sell.  You  wouldn't  believe  it, 
if  I  was  to  tell  you  the  number  of  people  that 
go  along  this  road,  begging,  tramping  all  the 
way  to — well,  heaven  knows  where,  and  I  can't 
refuse  a  hungry  man  something  to  eat.  I 
wasn't  raised  that  way." 

"Yes,  there  are  a  great  many  poor,  dis 
tressed  people  in  California." 

"  But  that  isn't  the  worst  of  it,"  continued 
Mrs.  Lee.  "  People  come  here  sometimes  and 
order  meals,  and  then  deliberately  walk  out, 


84  JUAN  PICO 

and  refuse  to  pay  for  them,  saying  they  haven't 
a  cent  in  the  world.  What  can  we  do  ?  noth 
ing,  Senora,  nothing." 

"  I  hope  that  doesn't  happen  often  ?  " 
"  One  happened  along  this  very  day.  He 
was  an  old  man,  and  a  bad  one,  I  can  tell  you ; 
he  ordered  a  bottle  of  wine,  and  after  drink 
ing  it,  said  it  wasn't  good  and  refused  to  pay 
for  it." 

"  Did  you  say  he  was  an  old  man  ?  " 
"  Old  ?  well,  I  should  say  he  was  old !    And 
besides  being  a  rogue,  I  think  he  was  half 
crazy,  for  he  had  a  lot  of  weeds  braided  in  his 
long  white  beard." 

"  How  singular ; "  the  golden  rosary  glided 
between  Senora  Gintaris'  clasping  and  unclasp 
ing  fingers,  "I  wonder  where  the  old  man 
could  have  been  going  with  no  one  to  care  for 
him."  She  raised  her  brows  very  slightly  and 
looked  at  Mrs.  Lee. 

"Oh,  to  Los  Angeles  or  to  some  of  the 
ranches  near  here,  I  guess.  But  he  wasn't 
alone,  the  old  scamp.  I  watched  him  as  he 
went  away,  and  what  do  you  think?  down 
the  road  there  was  a  young  girl  waiting  for 


JUAN  PICO  85 

him.  They  were  too  far  away  for  me  to  see 
what  she  looked  like,  but  she  didn't  act  as  if 
she  was  his  daughter.  It's  wonderful  how 
sometimes  an  old  man  will  fascinate  a  young 
girl,  so  she'll  up  and  marry  him,  isn't  it  ?  If 
they  only  knew  what  they  were  doing." 

Senora  Gintaris  arose:  "I  must  be  going. 
Good-night,  Mrs.  Lee." 

"Good-night,  Senora.  I  wish  you  a  safe 
journey." 

Bowing  her  head  slightly,  the  Senora  passed 
down  the  steps  and  crossed  the  yard  to  the 
phaeton.  Pedro  had  come  out  of  the  bar 
room  and  was  already  in  his  seat.  The  men 
were  watering  the  horses  who  thrust  their 
mouths  deep  into  the  pails.  Entering  the  car 
riage,  the  Senora  motioned  Pedro  to  proceed, 
and  dashing  through  the  gateway,  they  soon 
left  the  little  road-house  far  behind  them. 

As  the  hours  went  by  mile  was  added  to 
mile,  the  moon  climbed  so  high  that  her  light 
in  the  heavens  was  like  the  light  of  the  sun 
under  a  fleecy  cloud.  Senora  Gintaris  looked 
up  at  the  silent  stars  that  shone  with  a  won 
derful  brilliancy.  A  cool  breeze  was  blowing 


86  JUAN  PICO 

over  the  country  side,  now  uneven  and  rocky. 
Growing  among  the  lead-colored  rocks,  were 
a  few  stunted  pifion  trees  struggling  for  exist 
ence.  Here  and  there  along  the  road  sacred 
crucifixes  stood  out  against  the  sky  their 
naked  arms  stretching  from  east  to  west,  re 
minding  every  one  who  passed  of  the  world's 
greatest  tragedy. 

It  was  past  eleven  o'clock.  As  they  went 
through  the  little  town  of  San  Fernando,  not 
a  light  was  to  be  seen.  A  death-like  stillness 
reigned  over  all.  Every  one  was  asleep,  and 
the  phaeton  dashed  on  with  a  loud  noise.  The 
appearance  of  the  country  began  to  change. 
They  neared  the  foot-hills  of  the  Sierra  Nevada 
range,  whose  ponderous  sides  were  wrapped  in 
a  garment  of  odorless  yellow  poppies. 

The  Seiiora  leaned  forward,  "  Drive  faster, 
Pedro." 

u  Seiiora,  the  horses  can  go  no  faster,  they 
are  almost  dead  now ;  in  half  an  hour  we  will 
be  in  the  city." 

The  Senora  sighed  deeply,  "Very  weU, 
Pedro." 

Once  over  the  mesa,  lights  flickered  before 


JUAN  PICO  87 

them,  in  a  curious  little  network  of  stars,  a 
little  patch  of  heaven  thrown  down  to  earth, 
their  rows  clearly  defining  the  long  narrow 
streets.  No  further  conversation  passed  be 
tween  Senora  Gintaris  and  Pedro  until  they 
were  fairly  in  the  city ;  then  she  spoke : 

"  Drive  to  the  convent  of  The  Most  Holy 
Name." 

In  a  few  moments  they  passed  through  the 
park  and  along  Olive  street.  Before  them, 
like  a  single  black  silhouette  of  gables  and 
spires  stood  the  gloomy  convent.  As  they 
drew  up  before  the  door,  the  bell  in  the  cathe 
dral,  rang  out  the  hour,  with  the  solemn  tone 
that  bells  give  on  the  calm  still  air  of  mid 
night. 


SIX 

"  All  things  are  hushed  as  Nature's  self  lay  dead ; 
The  mountains  seem  to  nod  their  drowsy  head ; 
The  little  birds  in  dreams  their  songs  repeat, 
And  sleeping  flowers  beneath  the  night-dew  sweat; 
Even  lust  and  envy  sleep ;  yet  love  denies 
Rest  to  my  soul,  and  slumber  to  my  eyes." 

— DRYDEN. 

A  STEONG  wind  blew  from  the  ocean  and 
swept  up  through  the  valley.  It  lifted  the 
thick  blanket  of  dust  from  the  road  and  swung 
it  in  cylinder-like  clouds  high  in  the  air. 

Juan  Pico  had  walked  in  from  Alhambra  to 
Los  Angeles.  His  clothes  were  completely 
covered  with  dust,  and  his  eyes  smarted  with 
the  sting  of  alkali.  Tired  with  his  long  walk 
and  weary  of  his  own  thoughts,  he  immedi 
ately  went  to  the  priest's  house.  To  his  dis 
appointment  he  learned  that  Father  Jerome 
was  absent  at  Santa  Monica,  and  expected  to 
be  gone  two  or  three  days.  Juan  went  away ; 
not  far  from  the  Los  Angeles  Mission,  he  came 
to  an  eating  house.  Entering,  he  dropped 

88 


JUAN  PICO  89 

heavily  into  a  chair  near  the  door.  After 
ordering  a  simple  meal  he  sat  and  meditated : 

"  Should  he  wait  for  Father  Jerome  to  re 
turn,  or  ask  the  help  he  wanted  from  the 
assistant,  a  priest  whom  he  did  not  know  ? 
No,  he  could  not  make  up  his  mind  to  tell  his 
story  to  a  stranger ;  he  would  wait." 

When  he  had  finished  eating  he  felt  re 
freshed.  Sauntering  out  to  the  public  square, 
he  sat  down  on  a  bench  and  began  to  smoke. 
While  he  rested,  afternoon  gave  way  to  evening. 
Stars  came  out  one  by  one,  and  from  behind  a 
mighty  peak  the  moon  rose  softly.  The  whole 
shining  expanse  of  the  heavens  was  covered 
with  a  network  of  intricate  designs,  ever  in 
terlacing  and  changing  in  form.  Down  near 
the  horizon,  the  clouds  had  assumed  the  dull 
shades  of  tin.  Bats  glided  through  the  air 
upon  mysterious  flights,  like  the  creations  of  a 
nightmare.  Lights  appeared  in  the  windows 
of  the  shops  and  along  the  thoroughfares. 
People  went  leisurely  up  and  down  the  street. 

It  was  the  old  and  poor  quarter  of  the  town, 
and  the  majority  of  those  who  passed  were 
wretchedly  clad,  Mixed  with  the  growd? 


90  JUAN  PICO 

noticed  a  great  number  of  deformed  and  crip 
pled  people ;  these  were  now  hobbling  to  one 
side  of  the  walk,  now  they  were  being  shoved 
to  the  other.  A  young  girl  came  along  leading 
a  blind  man,  evidently  her  father ;  they  had  not 
gone  far,  before  a  drunken  man  reeled  against 
them  almost  throwing  the  old  man  into  the 
street.  Some  one  sprang  forward  to  save  him, 
and  a  little  knot  of  curious  half-grown  boys 
idly  gathered  around  them.  Beggars,  one 
after  the  other,  accosted  the  better  dressed 
citizens  or  droned  their  petitions  from  conspic 
uous  places.  A  middle-aged  man  stood  on  the 
opposite  corner  playing  an  accordion,  while  a 
child  near  him,  allowed  a  rattlesnake  to  coil 
about  her  neck  and  shoulders  to  the  great  de 
light  of  a  small  crowd  collected  in  front  of 
her,  at  a  safe  distance.  These  charitable  peo 
ple  occasionally  threw  her  a  penny,  and  asked 
if  the  serpent's  fangs  had  been  extracted. 
Gaily  painted  girls  drifted  by  smoking  small 
cigarettes.  Chinese  insinuated  themselves 
through  the  crowd,  selling  lottery  tickets  or 
telling  sallow-faced  youths  where  the  safest 
opium  joints  could  be  found,  Kanchmen,  with 


JUAN  PICO  81 

gaily  decorated  sombreros  and  leather  belts, 
anxious  to  see  the  city  and  get  drunk,  jostled 
along,  their  jollity  effervescing  in  coarse  songs, 
in  cursing  or  in  boisterous  shouts  of  laughter. 

Before  Juan's  eyes  passed  the  hideous  pan 
orama  of  the  street,  and  it  sickened  him.  He 
had  never  cared  for  the  city ;  now,  he  despised 
it.  Born  and  reared  among  the  ranches, 
nature  alone  delighted  his  soul.  To  him,  no 
music  could  equal  the  songs  of  the  birds,  or 
the  murmuring  of  the  stream.  He  loved  to 
sleep  so  near  the  brook  that  if  he  chanced  to 
waken  during  the  night  he  could  hear  over  the 
pebbles  and  among  the  grasses,  its  clear  sweet 
ripples.  The  air  of  the  city  choked  him ;  he 
felt  he  could  scarcely  breathe.  Looking  at  the 
crowd  he  felt  that  with  the  setting  of  the  sun, 
all  forms  of  goodness  and  virtue  had  disap 
peared.  From  out  the  shadows,  here  and 
there,  wretched  creatures  dragged  themselves 
from  their  hiding-places  and  began  to  walk 
the  night ;  each  revolting  form  of  life  busy 
plying  its  trade. 

Juan  could  faintly  hear  the  music  from  a 
neighboring  theatre ;  he  felt  rested  now,  and 


92  JUAN  PICO 

the  sound  attracted  him.  Eising,  he  started 
to  walk  down  the  street.  He  had  scarcely 
gone  a  block  when  he  felt  a  touch  on  his  arm. 
Glancing  down,  he  saw  an  old  beggar-woman 
close  beside  him.  Hastily  pulling  up  her 
sleeve  she  exposed  to  his  view  a  hideous, 
bleeding  sore,  the  sides  of  which  seemed  to 
gasp  and  discharge  blood  like  the  mouth  of  a 
fish  that  is  taken  by  a  hook  from  the  water. 
He  started  to  pass  her  by,  but  she  clung  to 
him,  saying : 

"  For  twenty  years,  Senor,  for  twenty 
years ! " 

Shoving  a  coin  into  her  hand  he  watched 
her  hurry  to  the  nearest  saloon.  Soon  he 
came  to  the  theatre.  Through  the  open  door 
he  discovered  it  was  a  concert-hall  and  saloon 
combined.  At  small  tables  men  were  seated, 
drinking  and  smoking.  On  a  narrow  stage 
erected  at  the  end  of  the  room,  a  woman 
dressed  like  a  sailor  was  attempting  to  dance 
the  "  Fisher's  Hornpipe." 

Extending  around  the  room  was  a  narrow 
gallery,  over  the  railing  of  which  leaned 
several  half -drunken  men;  occasionally  they 


JUAN  PICO  93 

threw  money  to  the  sailor  girl.  Just  as  Juan 
looked  in,  a  shower  of  gold  had  fallen  at  the 
dancer's  feet  and  she  was  throwing  kisses  at 
her  admirers.  This  met  with  the  approval  of 
the  entire  audience,  who  loudly  applauded.  A 
foul  odor  accompanied  by  thick  clouds  of 
smoke  issued  from  the  door.  Juan  passed  on 
to  the  end  of  the  street.  At  this  point  three 
small  streets  meet,  and  form  a  triangle.  For 
a  moment  Juan  paused ;  just  then,  pitiful  cries 
rent  the  air,  and  from  a  dark  alley  there  came 
a  policeman  hauling  a  drunken  woman  by  the 
arm.  She  was  in  agony.  Juan  recognized 
her  as  the  woman  with  the  gaping  sore. 
Evidently  delighted  with  the  moment's  di 
version,  a  small  crowd  had  collected  and  was 
following  her.  Juan  hastened  across  the 
street,  and  turning  the  corner  he  went  down 
Saint  Anne  Street.  All  these  sights  annoyed, 
disgusted  him.  He  walked  on ;  at  length  he 
became  so  absorbed  in  thought  that  he  was 
oblivious  to  all  around  him.  No  longer  did 
he  hear  the  noises  and  the  trample  of  the 
streets,  no  longer  did  he  see  the  glances  sent 
him  from  bright  eyes,  or  note  the  beautiful 


94  JUAN  PICO 

white  teeth  flashing  between  lips  that  smiled 
at  him.  His  big,  broad  shoulders  forced  their 
way  into  the  hearts  of  women,  and  as  he 
passed,  many  stopped  and  gazed  after  him, 
their  superb  forms  quivering.  He  hurried  on, 
inspiring  unknowingly,  in  those  who  might 
have  been  better  than  they  were,  a  feeling  of 
disappointment  or  a  sense  of  shame. 

Many  women  had  cared  for  Juan,  but  of 
this  kind,  none  had  fascinated  him.  Like  a 
plant  by  the  wayside  he  had  grown  in  bad 
soil,  but  in  spite  of  this  and  of  the  polluting 
rains  of  wine,  he  had  matured  and  blossomed 
with  more  perfection  than  could  have  been 
expected. 

Crossing  the  little  valley,  Juan  left  the  city 
behind,  and  came  toward  the  solemn  mountains 
standing  in  the  night  like  shadow-giants  dumb 
and  black.  Walking  beside  the  tall  grasses, 
he  allowed  their  spicy  leaves  to  run  through 
his  fingers,  as  in  a  boat  one  allows  the  water 
to  flow  through  the  hand.  Hope,  fear,  and 
despondency  were  at  war  within  him,  and  he 
felt  he  would  be  glad  to  die.  The  cold  per 
spiration  stood  in  crystal  beads  upon  his  brow ; 


JUAN  PICO  95 

laboredly  he  breathed  the  air  which  was  heavy 
with  the  perfume  of  flowers. 

Ever  ringing  in  his  ears,  he  could  hear  the 
accusing  voice  of  Seiiora  Gintaris : 

"You  ask  my  permission  to  marry  Anita, 
you,  a  gambler,  a  man  who  has  left  a  trail  of 
gold  in  nearly  every  gambling  place  from  here 
to  Los  Angeles  ?  No,  you  shall  never  marry 
her.  I  would  rather  see  her  dead  first.  What 
right  has  a  man  like  you  to  think  of  such  a 
thing?  Anita  knows  no  evil,  and  you,  you 
know  nothing  else." 

It  was  true,  he  had  done  wrong,  and  per 
haps  he  had  no  right  ever  to  have  the  love  of 
such  a  girl  as  Anita.  He  hardly  dared  think 
of  the  life  he  had  led,  of  the  sins  he  had  com 
mitted,  for  in  his  excited  state  remorse  magni 
fied  these  to  a  terrible  immensity.  His  soul 
was  on  the  rack  of  a  guilty  conscience,  and  the 
vault  of  heaven  seemed  not  further  away  than 
the  hope  of  realizing  his  dream  of  love. 

Coming  to  a  black  ravine,  he  entered  it; 
somewhere  in  its  depths  a  torrent  roared ; 
but  to  his  overwrought  brain  the  place  might 
have  been  Hades  or  Eden:  for  all  outside 


96  JUAN  PICO 

himself,  in  comparison,  was  steeped  in  tran 
quillity. 

At  first  he  followed  a  slight  path,  but  by 
and  by,  even  that  disappeared  and  he  made 
his  way  over  stones  and  through  prickly  under 
brush,  which  he  cast  roughly  aside ;  it  bruised 
and  tore  his  hands.  At  length  he  caught  his 
foot  in  the  root  of  a  tree,  and  fell  headlong, 
face  downward.  For  a  long  time  he  lay 
motionless,  the  wild  impetuous  blood  surging 
through  his  arteries.  Gradually  a  full  realiza 
tion  of  where  he  was  came  back  to  him.  In 
the  distance  he  heard  the  cry  of  a  mountain 
lion ;  above  him,  clinging  to  the  slopes,  were 
blue  gums,  pinons  and  shaggy  oaks,  and 
through  their  branches  the  breeze  passed  with 
a  lingering  sigh. 

As  one  drowning,  in  an  instant  reviews  his 
whole  life,  so  before  Juan  there  came  vividly, 
pictures  of  all  his  past.  He  thought  question- 
ingly  of  unfathomable  things:  why  was  it 
that  he  had  never  been  permitted  to  have 
known  a  mother's  love?  that  he  had  never 
had  any  one  to  love  and  care  for  him  but  the 
priests,  and  that  so  long  ago  ?  Why  had  he 


JUAN  PICO  97 

been  born  with  a  passion  for  gambling?  It 
must  be  that  it  had  been  born  in  him  since  he 
had  liked  to  play  at  cards  ever  since  he  could 
remember.  Why  had  he  not  been  made  like 
Father  Ambrose  ?  it  was  not  hard  for  him  to 
be  good.  Then  he  thought  of  men  he  had 
met  in  the  wine  shops,  and  how,  when  drunk, 
their  voices  sounded  like  the  groans  of  wild 
beasts,  and  their  hands  looked  like  claws. 
Such  men  as  these  had  been  his  companions  ! 
He  threw  his  head  from  side  to  side. 

Then,  in  thought,  he  went  back  to  the  long 
days  he  had  spent  on  the  hillsides,  with  his 
sheep  and  his  dog  for  companions.  They 
were  so  patient,  so  anxious  to  understand 
what  he  wanted  them  to  do,  and  so  ready  to 
forgive  any  neglect  or  inattention.  As  a  boy 
he  had  spent  most  of  his  time  with  the  ani 
mals  on  the  ranch,  tenderly  caring  for  them 
or  teaching  them  tricks.  The  ponies  would 
follow  him  around  like  dogs,  patiently  waiting 
for  the  reward  of  sugar,  sure  to  be  given  if 
they  succeeded  in  doing  what  Juan  wanted 
them  to.  Juan's  pulses  were  beating  more 
regularly.  Now,  he  recalled  how  years  be- 


98  JUAN  PICO 

fore  he  had  one  day  ridden  over  to  Otero 
ranch  on  his  pet  pony  which  he  intended  giv 
ing  to  Anita ;  and  how,  when  Senora  Gintaris 
and  Anita  came  into  the  court,  he  had  said  : 
"  Anita,  here  is  a  little  pony  for  you." 
Anita's  eyes  began  to  dance  with  delight, 
but  when  she  saw  the  level  glance  shot  from 
the  Senora's  eyes,  she  said  sadly : 

"  Thank  you,  Juan,  but  I  cannot  have  it." 
And  the  Senora  had  added  decisively : 
"  The  child  is  quite  right,  she  is  too  young 
to  ride.     I  do  not  wish  her  to  have  a  pony. 
"We  thank  you,  but  you  must  take  it  away." 

And  he  had  ridden  sadly  back  again,  for 
the  Senora's  voice  then,  as  now,  carried  with 
it  the  ring  of  authority. 

As  a  boy  he  thought  the  reason  he  liked  to 
visit  Otero  ranch  above  every  place  in  the 
valley,  was  because  the  sweetest  and  juiciest 
oranges  grew  there.  And  Sebastian,  in  his 
boyish  eyes,  was  a  wonderful  man.  He  knew 
all  about  everything  and  he  was  so  kind,  al 
ways  willing  to  show  him  the  bees  or  to  take 
him  wherever  he  was  going. 
But  now  he  realized  the  truth ;  it  was  not 


JUAN  PICO  99 

the  oranges,  nor  the  bees,  nor  Sebastian,  that 
had  made  Otero  ranch  so  attractive  to  him,  it 
was  Anita,  it  was  because  Anita  had  been 
there,  because  he  had  loved  her  from  the  very 
first.  Juan  moved ;  throwing  his  arms  out  at 
full  length,  one  hand  touched  a  flower ;  it  was 
on  the  low  branch  of  a  wild  pomegranate. 
Again  he  saw  Anita  in  her  old  faded  blue 
dress  turned  slightly  down  at  the  neck,  and 
on  her  breast  the  wild  pomegranate  flowers, 
she  so  often  wore.  He  always  thought  of 
wild  flowers  when  he  thought  of  Anita;  to 
him,  she  was  like  the  flowers,  was  one  of 
them.  He  clenched  his  hands : 

"  It  is  no  use  to  think  any  more  of  her,  my 
way  of  life  has  put  it  out  of  my  power  ever  to 
be  anything  to  her.  What  shall  I  do  ?  where 
shall  I  go?" 

In  the  dark  he  cried : 

"Anita!    Anita!" 

But  there  came  no  answer. 

"  Alas !  Anita  cannot  reply,  she  would 
not  be  allowed  to.  The  Senora  will  never 
permit  her  to  see  me  again,  if  she  can  help 
it" 


100  JUAN  PICO 

He  stared  up  into  the  sky  as  if  in  earnest 
supplication.  God's  holy  voice  answered  him 
through  the  words  of  Father  Ambrose : 

"Come  into  the  church,  Juan,  become  a 
novitiate.  Perhaps,  after  awhile  you  will  be 
led  to  take  the  vows  and  to  devote  your  life 
to  doing  good." 

If  Father  Ambrose  understood  fully  what  a 
miserable  sinner  he  had  been,  would  he  have 
made  such  a  suggestion  ?  Yes,  for  he  had  re 
pented,  he  had  promised  and  he  meant  to  do 
better.  After  confession  Father  Ambrose  had 
granted  him  absolution  and  said,  too,  that  the 
Holy  Church  forgave  him.  Why  should  he 
not  go  back  to  San  Gabriel  Arcangel  and  be 
come  indeed  a  son  of  the  Mission?  If  he 
could  help  to  make  any  one  happy,  that  was 
all  there  was  left  in  life  for  him  to  do.  Eis- 
ing  to  his  knees  and  looking  into  the  moonlit 
heaven,  he  prayed  God  to  help  and  to  guide 
him.  His  fervent  prayers  soothed  his  dis 
quieted  soul ;  then  he  arose  to  his  feet,  realiz 
ing  for  the  first,  that  he  was  cold  and  cramped 
and  tired.  Slowly  and  with  effort,  he  found 
his  way  back  to  the  little  path,  growing  with 


JUAN  PICO  101 

every  step  more  distinct ;  now,  he  crossed  the 
valley. 

Over  the  tips  of  the  receding  mountains 
could  be  seen  the  faint  sign  of  promise  that 
the  day  was  near.  When  he  entered  Los 
Angeles,  he  found  the  city  in  the  close  grasp 
of  sleep ;  the  streets  were  deserted  save  for  a 
few  belated  travelers  like  himself.  Turning 
into  a  side  street  and  walking  down  half  a 
block  he  stopped  in  front  of  a  small  store, 
over  the  door  of  which  read : 

"  Basil,  Basketmaker." 

Juan  knew  Basil  well,  for  had  he  not  often 
come  to  the  ranch  to  buy  willows  ?  Knocking 
loudly  several  times,  he  waited.  After  a  long 
while,  through  the  window  could  be  seen  the 
glow  of  a  flickering  oil  lamp,  and  a  voice  from 
within  called : 

"  Who's  there  ?  what's  wanted  ?  " 

"It  is  I,  Juan  Pico." 

"What  did  you  say?" 

"  Juan  Pico,  from  San  Gabriel,  Juan  Pico. 
Can  you  give  me  a  place  to  sleep  ?  " 

"  Aye,  to  be  sure,  to  be  sure  I  can."  The 
door  was  unbolted  and  Juan  entered.  After 


102  JUAN  PICO 

greetings  had  been  exchanged,  Basil  led  Juan 
to  a  small  room  shoved  in  under  the  slanting 
roof.  Here,  Juan  threw  himself  on  a  couch 
and  was  soon  asleep. 


SEVEN 

"  We  heard  the  grind  of  traffic  in  the  street, 
The  clamorous  calls,  the  beat  of  passing  feet, 
The  wail  of  bells  that  in  the  twilight  meet." 

— PHILIP  BOURKE  MARSTON. 

IN  the  gray  light  of  early  morning  Anita 
called : 

"  Juan,  aren't  these  lovely  ?  " 

She  was  dreaming  of  the  seashore  where 
Juan  and  she  were  gathering  shells. 

Awakening  for  a  moment,  the  young  girl 
looked  startled,  then  the  happy  look  faded 
away.  Yes,  she  remembered  it  all.  How 
dreadful  it  was,  and  Sebastian— she  shuddered. 
Her  eyes  fell  upon  an  ancient  prie-dieu  stand 
ing  beneath  the  rude  shelf,  above  which  hung 
the  picture  of  the  Christ  and  on  which  the 
burned-out  candle  stood.  Kising  from  the 
bed,  she  made  the  sign  of  the  cross  and  knelt 
with  hands  folded  on  her  bosom. 

Yesterday's  salty  tears  had  dried  upon  her 
cheeks ;  she  looked  careworn ;  but  the  ref resh- 
103 


104  JUAN  PICO 

ment  of  sleep,  the  repetition  of  her  customary 
prayers  reinforced  the  hopefulness  of  youth ; 
and  when  she  heard  the  voice  of  the  old 
woman  calling  her  to  the  morning  meal,  she 
opened  the  door  of  the  chamber  with  only  a 
slight  feeling  of  that  dread  which  had  so  over 
come  her  the  night  before. 

From  an  open  doorway  further  down  the 
hall,  the  old  woman  beckoned  to  her,  saying : 

"  You  will  need  a  cup  of  coffee  and  some 
thing  to  eat  before  you  start." 

To  Anita  the  old  woman  also  presented  a 
less  fearful  appearance  than  she  had  by  candle 
light,  and  she  walked  with  almost  her  usual 
air  of  gentle  confidence  along  the  passage-way. 
When  she  entered  the  room,  Sebastian  cried 
cheerfully : 

"  Come,  if  we  reach  Los  Angeles  in  good 
time  to-day,  we  must  get  an  early  start." 

Without  replying,  she  sat  down  at  a  little 
distance  from  Sebastian ;  she  ate  hastily  of  the 
meal  before  her,  and  rose  as  soon  as  she  had 
finished.  But  one  thought  possessed  her,  to 
get  away  to  Los  Angeles. 

"  Sebastian,  I  am  ready." 


JUAN  PICO  105 

"  Then  start  on,  Anita,  and  I  will  soon  over 
take  you." 

The  old  couple  regarded  her  stealthily,  and 
when  the  old  woman  looked  at  Sebastian  in  a 
knowing  way  and  as  if  about  to  speak,  he  mo 
tioned  her  to  keep  silent. 

Stepping  outside,  Anita  felt  the  cool  breeze 
that  reluctantly  stealing  through  the  valley 
stirred  the  slender  branches  of  the  trees.  Be 
low  the  horizon  the  golden  sun  was  rolling  up 
ward  upon  its  never-ending  journey,  begun  so 
many  years  ago.  The  very  pale  light  was 
steadily  increasing.  It  rushed  in  like  little 
rivulets  and  streams,  by  slight  shocks ;  ever 
lasting  things  were  illuminated  by  a  transpar 
ency  as  of  white-flamed  lamps,  that  flickered 
from  behind  the  shapeless  mass  of  slowly  dis 
solving  vapors.  They  lifted  carefully  and 
with  manifold  precautions,  as  if  fearing  to  dis 
turb  the  melancholy  of  the  moorland.  But 
rosy  tints  were  creeping  into  the  low-lying 
clouds.  They  deepened  into  amethyst,  into 
violet,  and  finally  into  red,  until  as  though 
bursting  with  blood,  they  overflowed  into  the 
deep  canons  along  the  edge  of  the  mesa, 


106  JUAN  PICO 

Sebastian  caught  up  with  Anita,  and  as  they 
walked  along,  the  deep  emerald  of  the  mead 
ows  they  had  passed  through  the  day  before 
gave  way  to  quiet  browns  and  grays.  The 
country  was  parched,  and  in  places  the  sun 
had  caused  the  earth  to  crack.  Kain  had  not 
fallen  for  months,  everything  was  covered 
with  dust.  Not  a  drop  of  dew  clung  to  the 
plants  along  the  roadside,  and  Anita  felt  sorry 
for  the  thirsting,  dust-laden  flowers. 

Much  refreshed,  Sebastian  walked  ahead, 
and  in  a  merry  voice  continually  reminded 
Anita  of  the  end  of  their  journey,  Los  Angeles. 
At  last,  he  said : 

"  In  a  little  while,  now,  Anita,  we  shall  be 
there." 

Anita  stood  still,  speaking  for  the  first 
time: 

"  Sebastian,  what  makes  you  call  me,  Anita  ? 
What  made  you  call  me,  your  daughter  ?  " 

"  Because,  my  child,  the  people  we  meet  will 
ask  us  all  kinds  of  questions." 

"  But  I  am  not  your  daughter,  and  you  shall 
not  say  so." 

"  Suppose  somebody  asks  me  who  you  are  ?  " 


JUAN  PICO  107 

"  You  needn't  say  anything.  And  I  won't 
have  you  call  me,  Anita." 

"  Oh,  very  well,  do  fathers  call  their  daugh 
ters,  Seiiorita  ?  Besides,  if  people  find  out  you 
are  not  my  daughter  they  may  not  let  us  go  to 
Los  Angeles  together." 

"  Then  I  will  go  back  to  the  Senora,"  said 
Anita,  with  tears  in  her  eyes. 

"  Do  you  know  the  way  ?  "  asked  Sebastian, 
snappishly. 

"I  can  ask." 

"Much  good  that  would  do  you.  Do  you 
know  what  they  do  to  girls  who  run  away  from 
home  ?  They  shut  them  up  in  convents.  If 
you  don't  pay  attention  to  what  I  tell  you,  you 
will  never  see  Juan  or  Los  Angeles,  either." 

Anita  began  to  cry. 

"  Now,  Anita,  you  are  very  foolish ;  am  I  not 
taking  you  to  Los  Angeles?  don't  you  want 
to  go  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  whispered. 

"  Well,  if  you  do,  you  must  let  me  pretend 
you  are  my  daughter.  Until  we  find  Juan,  I 
will  take  care  of  you.  JSTow,  stop  crying." 

They  began  to  walk  along  again,  Anita  feel- 


108  JUAN  PICO 

ing  that  the  dust  of  the  road  would  choke  her, 
and  longing  inexpressibly  to  reach  the  end  of 
the  journey.  On  and  on  they  went ;  to  Anita, 
it  seemed  as  if  they  would  never  stop  walking ; 
at  last  she  paused,  and  tried  to  brush  the  abom 
inably  annoying  dust  from  her  gown  and  shoes, 
exclaiming : 

"  Oh,  dear !    Aren't  we  almost  there  ?  " 

Sebastian  replied  cheerily : 

"  Yes,  we  are  almost  there,"  and  he  waited 
for  her  to  overtake  him,  saying  in  a  half -sooth 
ing  voice : 

"  When  I  was  a  boy  I  lived  in  these  parts. 
Anita,  did  you  ever  hear  of  General  Fre 
mont?" 

"  Of  course  I  have."  Anita  was  cross  and 
tired.  Sebastian  continued : 

"  I  remember  the  day  the  noble  general  and 
his  regiment  marched  along  this  road  going 
to  'Frisco.  It  was  a  grand  sight.  On  a  fine 
white  horse,  the  general  rode  in  advance ;  the 
gold  epaulets  on  his  broad  shoulders  glistened 
brightly  in  the  sun.  Every  one  for  miles 
around  came  out  to  see  him,  even  the  sick ; 
people  unable  to  walk  were  carried  and  laid 


JUAN  PICO  109 

by  the  roadside.  "When  the  general  passed, 
the  people  waved  their  hands  and  shouted 
words  of  praise.  Men  gathered  pine  tree 
branches  and  strewed  them  before  him.  They 
did  that,  you  know,  Anita,  because  the  pine 
means  long  life,  and  that  day  everybody  wished 
him  many  years  of  happiness.  We  followed 
him  as  far  as  Rubio ;  then  came  back,  some  of 
us,  still  carrying  the  trodden  branches.  It  was 
a  time  I  shall  never  forget." 

Anita  sighed,  then  she  said : 

"  Yes,  the  Seiiora  has  told  me  of  him ;  he 
was  a  great  and  good  man."  Suddenly  she 
stopped,  her  face  grew  pale,  she  threw  out  her 
hands  to  keep  from  falling. 

"  Anita !  "  exclaimed  Sebastian,  steadying 
his  hand  on  his  cane,  "  lean  on  me,  or  you  will 
fall."  She  caught  hold  of  his  rough  sleeve  for 
support. 

"O,  Anita,  look,  look,  what  a  splendid 
sight ! " 

She  roused  with  an  effort ;  shading  her  eyes 
with  her  hand,  she  gazed  in  front  of  her,  and 
saw  a  magnificent  flock  of  sheep  filling  the 
road.  There  were  at  least  ten  thousand,  their 


110  JUAN  PICO 

little  hoofs  tapping  confusedly  and  their 
backs  undulating  like  the  waves  of  a  peace 
ful  sea.  Two  dogs  with  brown  spots  above 
the  eyes,  giving  them  a  half-comic,  half- 
stupid  expression,  ran  beside  the  sheep,  and 
two  shepherds  brought  up  the  rear.  Sebas 
tian's  yellow,  wrinkled  fingers,  that  felt  like 
the  bloodless  muscle  of  the  tortoise,  grasped 
Anita's  hand  as  it  lay  upon  his  sleeve,  and  he 
exclaimed : 

"  Those  are  fine  sheep !  I  would  be  proud 
to  own  that  flock." 

Anita  pulled  her  hand  away,  and  with  Se 
bastian  close  at  her  side,  stepped  to  the  edge 
of  the  road  until  the  sheep  should  pass.  Se 
bastian  stood  in  front  of  Anita,  and  the  dust 
also  helped  to  keep  the  shepherds  from  getting 
a  good  look  at  her. 

Scrutinizing  them  the  old  man  said :  "  Those 
sheep  have  just  been  sheared.  Holla ! "  he 
called  to  the  shepherds,  "  whose  sheep  are  you 
driving  ?  " 

"  Eh,  Sebastian  ?  These  sheep  now  belong 
to  Gonzalez  Eomero ;  he  won  them  gambling 
at  San  Gabriel." 


JUAN  PICO  111 

"  Ah,  I  know,  I  know ;  a  famous  game, 
wasn't  it  ?  A  big  stake  to  play  for." 

The  sheep  were  passing  at  a  slow  trot,  the 
dust  puffed  up  thickly  about  them,  and  hung 
above  them  in  thinning  clouds. 

"  Where  are  you  driving  them  ?  " 

"  Over  to  pasture  in  the  San  Fernando  val 
ley." 

"  Will  Gonzalez  turn  ranchman  ?  " 

Now  the  shepherds  and  the  last  of  the  sheep 
were  passing,  and  Anita  walking  swiftly  on 
ward,  missed  part  of  the  reply. 

"He?  not  he!  These  sheep  are  going  to 
be  slaughtered.  As  soon  as  Pico  turned  'em 
over  to  Gonzalez,  he  sold  'em  to  the  butchers 
in  Los  Angeles." 

"  It's  a  pity  to  kill  them ;  they're  the  finest 
sheep  in  the  valley." 

"What  would  you  have  him  do  ?  He's  got 
the  money  for  'em,  that's  all  he  wants." 

The  shepherds  had  not  ceased  to  stare  curi 
ously  over  their  shoulders  at  Anita  who  con 
tinued  to  walk  along  the  road.  Finally  one 
of  the  men  called  to  Sebastian : 

"  And  where  are  you  going  ?  " 


112  JUAN  PICO 

"  To  Los  Angeles ;  I'm  taking  my  daughter 
there." 

The  shepherd  who  had  not  spoken,  now 
hollaed  back : 

"  Go  'long,  you  ain't  married.  You've  been 
luckier  nor  Gonzalez.  How'd  you  get  your 
daughter,  gamblin'  ?  " 

Both  men  laughed  and  waved  their  staffs 
mockingly  at  Sebastian  who  made  no  reply, 
but  with  a  vexed  look  on  his  wrinkled  face, 
hastened  after  Anita.  When  he  caught  up 
with  her  he  was  quite  out  of  breath,  and  it 
was  some  minutes  before  he  was  able  to  artic 
ulate  in  a  halting,  excited  voice : 

"  We  shall  have  a  fine  view  when  we  get  to 
the  top  of  the  hill." 

A  few  steps  further  brought  them  to  the 
summit  of  the  hill.  Now  far  above  the  hori 
zon,  the  sun  cast  its  glorious  glow  over  the 
bewildering  landscape.  Every  mountain  peak 
was  bathed  in  brilliancy  and  the  valley  was 
inundated  by  floods  of  sunshine.  Beyond  the 
valley's  edge  on  the  horizon,  was  a  flashing 
bar  of  silver. 

"  Oh !    What— what  is  that  ?  " 


JUAN  PICO  113 

"  That  is  the  great  Pacific  ocean." 

Anita  held  her  breath ;  she  did  not  move ; 
she  was  almost  happy  again.  Softly  she  be 
gan  to  inhale  the  tranquil  air  which  was  im 
pregnated  with  the  life  that  comes  from  the 
sea.  Sebastian  watched  her  with  delight. 

"  O  Sebastian ! "  she  exclaimed.  "  It  is  far 
more  beautiful  than  I  expected." 

"And  see,"  he  replied,  pointing  into  the 
valley,  "  there  is  Los  Angeles." 

Her  lovely  eyes  grew  larger ;  they  seemed 
illumined  by  a  sacred  fire  that  blazed  within 
her  soul.  Her  face  was  all  rosy  even  to  the 
uncertain  edge  of  her  bright  brown  hair. 

Far  away  the  city  calmly  nestled  in  its 
cradle  of  the  hills.  Anita  stood  motionless; 
at  last, — her  eyes  beheld  the  city  and  the  sea. 

Softly  as  if  to  herself  she  repeated : 

"  It  is  wonderful,  wonderful ! " 

Coming  close  beside  her,  Sebastian  ejacu 
lated  with  almost  childish  delight : 

"I  told  you  I  would  bring  you  to  Los 
Angeles.  You  would  never  have  seen  it  if  it 
had  not  been  for  me." 

"Yes,"  said  the  girl,  without  taking  her 


114  JUAN  PICO 

eyes  from  the  longed-for  scene,  "I  should 
never  have  seen  it  but  for  you." 

"Never,  Anita,  never,"  he  repeated  in  a 
loud  voice. 

After  a  moment's  pause,  she  cried : 

"  Come,  Sebastian,  let  us  hurry  to  Juan." 
And  almost  running,  she  started  on  in  ad 
vance.  Sebastian  called  her  back  from  the 
main  road  and  led  her  into  a  circuitous  cattle 
trail  that  was  little  frequented  by  travelers; 
it  straggled  along  through  several  of  the  out 
lying  ranches  and  crossed  the  dried  up  Los 
Angeles  river  near  the  stockyards.  As  they 
trudged  along,  Sebastian  was  one  moment 
feverishly  exhilarated,  and  at  the  next,  de 
spondent.  The  country  through  which  they 
were  walking  was  full  of  memories  that  made 
him  realize  he  was  no  longer  young. 

At  one  point  on  the  trail,  they  came  upon  a 
weather-beaten  crucifix,  before  which  he  fol 
lowed  Anita's  example  and  crossed  himself. 
Though,  according  to  his  ideas,  death  ended 
all  and  there  was  no  future  life,  yet  he  had  a 
certain  unaccountable  horror  of  ghosts,  and 
held  a  great  number  of  superstitious  beliefs; 


JUAN  PICO  115 

the  fleeting  fears  which  these  caused  him  were 
assuaged  by  his  confidence  in  the  saints,  and 
hence  he  had  a  satyr-like  veneration  for 
churches  and  shrines. 

At  last  they  were  in  Los  Angeles.  Anita 
drew  a  long  breath. 

"  Let  us  rest  awhile  on  this  bench,"  said  Se 
bastian,  as  they  entered  the  plaza.  Directly 
opposite  was  the  Los  Angeles  Mission.  Ad 
joining  it,  was  the  priest's  house  with  its  long, 
comfortable  veranda,  in  front  of  which  many 
pretty  flowers  bloomed.  An  old  stone  walk 
led  up  to  the  door,  and  between  the  stones 
grew  little  tufts  of  grass,  giving  to  the  place 
an  air  of  antiquity. 

It  was  the  annual  day  of  reconciliation  and 
of  prayer  for  incurables,  and  the  whole  city 
seemed  surfeited  with  misery.  Passing  into 
the  church  was  a  long  procession  of  sick  people, 
afflicted  with  every  hideous  disease  of  which 
the  human  body  is  susceptible.  There  were 
old  women  with  slowly  eating  ulcers ;  young 
girls  with  Saint  Yitus'  dance;  middle-aged 
men  coughing  and  expectorating  in  the  most 
dangerous  stages  of  consumption;  children, 


116  JUAN  PICO 

who  had  been  on  the  rack  of  pain  ever  since 
they  were  born ;  idiots ;  the  insane ;  the  blind ; 
the  lame  ;  throughout  the  city,  all  these  were 
making  as  best  they  could,  their  suffering  pil 
grimage,  going  from  church  to  church  and 
from  shrine  to  shrine. 

The  sight  of  these  people  amazed  Anita,  but 
there  was  so  much  else  to  attract  her  atten 
tion  that  she  did  not  realize  fully  the  misery 
before  her.  Everything  interested  her.  As 
she  looked  about,  she  hardly  knew  whether  it 
was  a  dream  or  a  reality.  She  seldom  spoke, 
for  Sebastian  had  told  her  not  to  ask  ques 
tions,  when  any  one  was  near,  as  they  would 
laugh  at  her.  But  when  she  saw  two  nuns 
amidst  the  crowd  that  was  surging  into  the 
Mission  Church,  she  noticed  with  delight  their 
dull-blue  dresses,  the  great  wing-like  points  of 
white  extending  outside  their  bonnets,  their 
mild  white  faces,  and  she  could  not  help  ex 
claiming  : 

"  How  beautiful  the  good  nuns  look." 

And  Sebastian  puffed  at  his  cigarette  and 
replied,  cynically : 

"Yes,  they  do  look  beautiful." 


JUAN  PICO  117 

In  the  centre  of  the  plaza  there  was  a 
splashing  fountain  filled  with  gold  fish.  Anita 
fed  them  a  bit  of  bread  from  her  lunch.  At 
the  same  time,  she  allowed  nothing  else  in  the 
plaza  to  escape  her  attention ;  she  noticed  oc 
casional  Chinamen  dressed  in  their  gaudy  Ori 
ental  clothes ;  ladies  driving  by  in  their  car 
riages  holding  over  their  heads  parasols  of 
every  imaginable  color. 

When  the  noon-hour  approached,  working- 
men  came  into  the  plaza  to  eat  their  dinners, 
and  the  bustle  and  movement  in  the  streets 
increased.  The  place  became  crowded;  Se 
bastian  was  rested  and  wished  to  seek  a 
more  secluded  spot;  he  rose  stiffly  from  the 
bench,  saying  in  a  loud  voice  so  that  a  man 
who  had  been  looking  them  over,  from  across 
the  way,  should  hear. 

"  Come,  daughter,  come,  we  must  be  going." 

Just  as  they  passed  out  of  the  square,  the 
bells  of  Saint  Paul's  began  to  chime,  "  I  heard 
the  voice  of  Jesus  say,"  and  Anita  stopped  in 
a  self-forgetful  rapture,  lost  as  in  the  holy  en 
chantment  of  a  sad  dream. 

When  the  last  note  died  away  she  still  re- 


118  JUAN  PICO 

mained  motionless,  gazing  upward  with  tears 
upon  her  cheeks. 

Sebastian  looked  at  her  jealously;  his  evil 
eyes  seemed  to  be  searching  for  her  soul.  Se 
curing  her  hand  he  caressed  it,  but  not  for  a 
moment  did  he  remove  his  eyes  from  her  face ; 
passion  and  revenge  were  whirling  him  in  or 
bits  of  desire.  How  beautiful  she  was ;  her 
eyes  like  turquoises ;  her  chestnut  locks  flash 
ing  in  the  sun  like  golden  threads.  As  the 
different  emotions  seized  her  the  color  was 
coming  and  vanishing  in  her  cheeks.  "When 
she  should  speak  her  voice  would  be  low  and 
sweet.  Her  lips  are  so  full  and  red.  The 
miserable  monster  could  scarcely  resist  taking 
her  in  his  arms. 

Anita  came  to  herself  and  when  her  eyes 
met  Sebastian's,  he  dropped  her  hand,  as  if 
their  clear  light  dazzled  him.  He  moved 
away  and  walked  on  without  speaking. 

They  went  here  and  there  about  the  city, 
and  along  in  the  afternoon,  they  dined  at  a 
small  restaurant.  Later,  they  went  toward 
the  part  of  the  city  where  they  could  get  a 
view  of  the  sea,  and  Anita  looked  at  the  mag- 


JUAN  PICO  119 

nificent  sun,  setting  far  out  in  the  ocean,  and 
she  watched  contentedly  the  shadows  of  the 
ships  elongating  upon  the  glittering  expanse 
of  water. 

When  purple  shadows  gathered,  and  the 
silvery  veiling  moonlight  noiselessly  dropped 
from  heaven,  they  went  into  the  vast  cathe 
dral,  filled  with  the  odor  of  incense.  Here,  in 
the  semi-darkness,  the  sightless  eyes  of  saints 
glared  down  upon  them. 

Like  a  swallow's  nest  the  organ  hung  from 
the  wall  of  the  cathedral;  the  organist  was 
practicing  a  part  of  the  mass  and  the  church 
was  overflowing  with  the  rolling  opulence  of 
sound. 

Sebastian,  who  did  not  believe  in  God, 
threw  himself  upon  his  knees.  Anita,  trans 
ported,  began  to  sing ;  her  glorious  voice  rising 
and  falling  with  the  swelling  sea  of  harmony. 

Suddenly  the  organist  stopped,  as  if  listen 
ing.  At  once,  Sebastian  rose,  took  Anita  by 
the  hand  and  led  her  hastily  from  the  cathe 
dral.  Again,  Anita  was  drifting  with  the 
stream  of  strange  people. 


EIGHT 

"Whither;  O,  splendid  ship,  thy  white  sails  crowding, 

Leaning  across  the  bosom  of  the  urgent  West, 
That  fearest  nor  sea  rising,  nor  sky  clouding, 
Whither  away,  fair  rover,  and  what  thy  quest  ?  " 

— ROBERT  BRIDGES. 

As  they  were  on  their  way  from  the  cathe 
dral  to  a  rude  obscure  lodging  house,  Sebas 
tian  caught  a  distant  glimpse  of  Juan  Pico 
looking  in  at  a  concert  saloon,  and  he  hurried 
Anita  almost  faster  than  she  could  walk  in  an 
opposite  direction.  To  know  that  they  were 
liable  to  run  across  Juan  at  any  moment,  made 
Sebastian  very  uneasy,  and  after  leaving  the 
young  girl  asleep,  he  slunk  guardedly  around 
Los  Angeles  making  inquiries  about  the  ves 
sels  sailing  for  San  Diego. 

Early  next  morning  he  engaged  passage  on 
a  vessel  which  was  to  sail  southward  on  the 
following  day.  And  later  in  the  morning, 
with  Anita,  he  started  to  spend  the  day  at  the 
seashore.  It  was  very  warm,  and  Sebastian 
realized  that  after  the  exertions  of  the  day 
ISO 


JUAN  PICO  121 

before,  the  long  walk  would  be  too  much  for 
Anita's  strength,  so  after  going  a  short  dis 
tance,  he  made  her  sit  down  with  him  by  the 
roadside.  While  they  rested,  a  ranchero  came 
along,  driving  in  the  direction  they  wished  to 
go.  Sebastian  asked  if  he  would  oblige  them 
with  a  lift,  as  his  daughter  was  tired  and  not 
strong.  The  ranchero  consented,  and  the  two 
travelers  climbed  into  the  wagon.  About  the 
middle  of  the  forenoon  they  came  in  full  view 
of  the  beach.  Anita  was  beside  herself  with 
delight,  exclaiming : 

"Oh,  let's  not  ride  any  further,  let's  get 
out  here.  Please,  stop,  Senor." 

The  man  stopped.  "  Gracias,  Senor ; "  Anita 
jumped  out  and  ran  down  in  advance  of  Se 
bastian  to  the  glistening,  silvery  sands.  She 
was  fairly  carried  away  with  pleasure  as  she 
watched  the  waves  roll  themselves  upon  the 
beach  like  the  regular  pulsations  of  a  mighty 
heart.  "Wave  followed  wave  until  she  was  be 
wildered.  The  white  crests  blossoming  at 
her  feet  made  her  think  of  white  rose  trees  in 
the  restless  rustling  of  the  winds.  Dancing 
along  the  shore,  she  stopped  now  and  then  to 


122  JUAN  PICO 

pick  up  a  shell,  waving  her  hand  and  calling 
gaily  back  to  Sebastian.  Lights  and  shadows 
played  around  her.  Catching  her  hair,  the 
wind  blew  it  out  far  behind,  then  up  over  her 
head,  letting  it  fall  again  on  her  shoulders  like 
a  shower  of  gold.  She  paused  and  listened  to 
the  enormous  billows  as  they  dashed  over  the 
rocks  on  to  triumphant  eternity,  or  sought  it 
calmly  on  the  vast  level  shore.  Creeping  into 
the  rocky  crevices  she  could  hear  the  waters 
laugh  and  sing;  now,  mourn  and  cry.  The 
never  ending  disturbance  of  the  billowy  surf, 
compared  to  the  brooding  serenity  above  it, 
fascinated  her.  In  the  distance  she  could  see 
the  yellow  Santa  Monica  mountains  rising  out 
of  the  blue,  transparent  waters.  Her  eyes 
followed  the  rugged  line  of  cliffs  far  to  the 
northward.  Santa  Barbara  island  was  a  mere 
speck  on  the  horizon.  Stretching  to  the  south, 
brilliant  with  its  golden  glister,  the  long  beach 
near  Eedondo,  curled  inward.  Beyond  the 
surf,  as.  far  as  her  eye  could  reach,  everything 
was  serene  and  placid.  Upon  the  bosom  of 
the  sea  a  great  white  winged  ship  was  sailing 
down  to  Mexico ;  she  watched  it  grow  smaller 


JUAN  PICO  123 

and  smaller,  as  it  became  more  indistinct  and 
dim,  until  it  seemed  a  thing  of  air,  a  point  on 
the  great  Circle,  then  vanished.  She  listened 
to  the  mournful  cries  of  the  sea  gulls  flying 
tirelessly  around  her  and  over  her  head. 

Thoughts  of  the  past  scarcely  entered  her 
mind,  and  Otero  ranch  paled  before  the  new 
glory  of  the  sea.  But  always  with  her  was 
the  thought  of  Juan  inspiring  her  with  hope 
and  confidence.  Sebastian  would  find  him  to 
morrow.  Almost  as  though  present  the  fu 
ture  seemed  drawing  near.  Still  standing 
twixt  doubt  and  fear  the  soothing  influences 
breathed  by  the  sea,  quieted  her  with  a  feeling 
of  repose  and  she  was  serenely  happy. 

Sebastian  was  tired ;  he  sat  down  on  a  rock 
and  watched  Anita  from  afar ;  but  Anita 
scarcely  felt  that  she  had  a  body;  in  the 
midst  of  present  distractions  she  was  forget 
fully  happy  and  again  and  again  she  reminded 
herself, 

"  I  shall  soon  see  Juan." 

At  last  she  looked  toward  Sebastian ;  he  was 
smoking  and  watching  the  little  rings  of  smoke 
expand  and  break  in  the  air.  She  ran  back  to 


124  JUAN  PICO 

him  and  sat  down  beside  him.  As  she  watched 
him  through  the  smoke  she  fancied  he  was 
changing,  and  he  appeared  more  and  more 
unusual  to  her  until  at  last  she  asked  quickly : 

"Are  you  thinking  of  Otero  ranch,  Se 
bastian  ?  " 

"  No,  Anita ;  and  you  must  not  think  of  it 
again." 

Anita  without  replying  looked  back  to  the 
beach,  as  though  vainly  searching  for  some 
ship  that  had  passed  from  sight;  then  she 
turned  to  him : 

"  Why  not,  Sebastian  ?  " 

"  Because  it's  no  use  to  think  of  what's  gone. 
You  just  wait,  and  you'll  have  better  times 
than  you  ever  had  at  Otero  ranch,  even  if  we 
don't  find  Juan." 

"  Why,  Sebastian,  you  will  look  for  Juan 
again  to-night  as  you  did  last  night,  won't 
you?" 

"Certainly,  Anita;  but  I  begin  to  think — 
I'm  almost  afraid  he's  not  come  to  Los 
Angeles  at  all.  I'm  afraid  it's  more  than 
likely  he's  gone  to  San  Diego." 

"  O,  Sebastian,  then  what  shall  we  do  ?  " 


JUAN  PICO  125 

"If  I  cannot  find  him  here  to-night,  we 
will  go  to  San  Diego  at  once,  and  look  for 
him  there." 

"But  suppose  we  don't  find  him  there, 
either  ?  " 

"Oh,  now  don't  worry.  I  will  look  as  I 
said,  to-night,  and  to-morrow  we  will  know 
what  to  do.  When  Juan  goes  to  San  Diego 
he  always  stays  a  long  time,  for  he  has  friends 
there  and  business  to  look  after,  so  we  shall  be 
sure  not  to  miss  him." 

"  Yes,  Juan  used  to  tell  me  of  San  Diego 
and  of  the  vineyards  there." 

"  To  be  sure,  for  Juan  knows  all  about  them. 
When  he  was  a  little  boy  he  lived  there  with 
his  father." 

"  Was  his  father  rich,  Sebastian  ?  " 

"Yery  rich.  He  owned  big  vineyards  on 
the  table-lands  of  Mexico.  The  Pico  family 
have  always  been  rich.  They  have  given  lots 
of  money  to  the  church;  Juan's  father  was 
forever  giving.  When  the  priests  saw  him 
coming  toward  the  door  of  the  Missions  they 
were  glad,  for  a  good  sum  was  sure  to  pass 
from  his  pockets  into  theirs." 


126  JUAN  PICO  „ 

"Then  he  must  have  been  a  good  man, 
Sebastian." 

"Oh,  yes,  he  was  a  good  man.  But  you 
should  have  seen  his  wife,  the  Senora ;  she  was 
a  French  woman  from  New  Orleans :  my  !  but 
she  was  pretty." 

"But,  now,  Juan  has  no  father  nor  mother," 
said  Anita,  pensively. 

"  True,  he  is  all  alone  in  the  world." 

"  Sebastian,  do  you  think  he  will  be  glad  to 
see  me  ?  " 

"Yes,  yes,  I  am  sure.  For  he  loves  you. 
And  then,  you  know,— I  love  you,  too,  Anita." 

Anita's  eyes  studied  his  face ;  she  had  hardly 
looked  at  him  all  day,  so  absorbed  had  she 
been  in  the  new  sights  and  scenes  around  her ; 
indeed,  she  had  hardly  thought  of  him.  Now 
she  began  to  think  how  sad  and  strange  he 
looked.  He,  too,  was  alone  in  the  world  and 
how  old  he  was,  with  his  long,  white  beard 
sweeping  over  his  breast  like  a  drift  of  snow, 
with  his  small  gray  eyes  shaded  under  heavy 
white  brows,  that  made  her  think  of  dormer 
windows  heaped  with  snow  in  pictures  she  had 
seen  of  northern  cities.  His  sombrero  fell 


JUAN  PICO  127 

among  the  shells,  exposing  his  long,  silvery 
hair,  which  lay  upon  his  shoulders  and  sparkled 
in  the  light  of  the  afternoon  sun.  Anita  felt 
a  pity  for  him : 

"  He  is  so  old  to  walk  from  place  to  place." 
Sebastian  broke  in  upon  her  thoughts  by 
saying : 

"As  I  said,  if  I  don't  find  Juan  to-night, 
to-morrow  I  will  take  you  to  San  Diego.  If  I 
was  alone  I  would  wait  here  for  Juan,  but  I 
want  to  do  everything  I  can  to  make  you 
happy,  Anita,  so  we  will  go  right  away  to  San 
Diego.  Am  I  not  kind  to  you,  Anita  ?  Do  I 
not  show  that  I  love  you  ?  When  you  were  a 
little  child  I  used  to  carry  you  in  my  arms 
into  the  fields,  or  help  you  climb  into  the 
manger  full  of  clover  to  watch  the  sheep 
being  sheared.  And  now,  too,  Anita,  I  will 
do  anything  for  you." 

"  Thank  you,  Sebastian,"  she  said  with  an 
air  of  kindness. 

"  But  come,  Anita,  we  must  be  going." 
They  rose ;  it  was  growing  chilly  in  the  de 
clining  day.     The  sun  was  setting  and  casting 
angry  forks  of  fire  into  the  sky ;  through  rents 


128  JUAN  PICO 

in  a  bank  of  clouds  anchored  on  the  horizon, 
were  flung  shafts  of  salmon  and  of  rose. 
Slowly  the  bright  red  sky  turned  to  violet, 
and  the  sea  showed  a  pale,  ghastly  green. 
Beneath  the  cliff  the  monotonous  waves  rolled 
up  like  the  breathing  of  a  sleeping  giant. 

They  left  the  beach,  Anita  often  looking 
back.  When  the  ocean  was  lost  to  view,  Se 
bastian  said : 

"  Sing  to  me,  Anita." 

At  first  she  was  silent ;  then,  by  and  by,  she 
began  softly  to  sing  an  old  Spanish  song  the 
Senora  had  taught  her.  Louder  and  louder 
her  lovely  voice  rang  out  on  the  clear  air. 
From  the  quiet  landscape,  there  came  at  in 
tervals  the  response  of  some  homeward  flying 
bird.  There  were  no  other  sounds.  Silently 
ever  before  them,  floated  their  grotesque  shad 
ows,  that  pointed  along  the  road  as  though 
luring  them  into  the  realms  of  night.  Pres 
ently,  way  off  in  the  distance  like  an  accom 
paniment,  Anita  heard  the  tinkling  of  bells. 
She  stopped  and  looked  back.  Coming  along 
through  the  broad  sandy  roads  of  the  mead 
ows  were  some  Chinese  laborers  driving  ox- 


JUAN  PICO  129 

carts  that  creaked  under  the  weight  of  tower 
ing  loads  of  dried  ferns  and  of  kelp  from  the 
seashore.  Around  the  necks  of  the  oxen  were 
tinkling  bells,  that  beat  time  to  the  slippery 
gutterals  of  the  drivers.  Sebastian  and  Anita, 
waited  until  the  carts  had  passed,  then  started 
on  again.  When  it  was  almost  dark,  they 
were  overtaken  by  a  ranchero  driving  an 
empty  wagon,  who  brought  them  back  into 
Los  Angeles. 


"  When  overwhelmed  with  grief 

My  heart  within  me  dies ; 
Helpless,  and  far  from  all  relief, 
To  heaven  I  lift  mine  eyes." 

—WATTS. 

AFTEKNOON  of  next  day,  found  Juan  in  the 
study  of  Father  Jerome,  who  had  returned 
from  Santa  Monica  earlier  than  expected. 
Sitting  at  the  heavy  carved  table  he  turned 
slowly  the  leaves  of  the  great  sheepskin  book 
of  records.  At  last  he  stopped : 

"  Come  here,  son,  here  is  the  record  written 
down  distinctly.  Bead  it  for  yourself." 

Juan  stepped  close  to  the  father's  side  and 
looking  down  sharply  at  the  yellowing  page 
across  which  the  father  slowly  traced  the 
lines,  he  read : 

"  Married,  at  eight  o'clock,  Juan  Pico,  and 
Agatha  Benoit,  at  this  Mission,  August 
tenth  "— 

"  And  here  you  see  is  the  year,  the  signa 
ture  of  Father  Baptiste  who  married  them; 

130 


JUAN  FICO  131 

and  here,  the  signatures  of  the  witnesses. 
Now  you  have  seen  the  record  with  your 
own  eyes."  Father  Jerome  leaned  back  in 
his  chair  and  smiled  benignly. 

"  Thank  you,  father,  and  will  you  give  me  a 
copy  of  it  ?  " 

"Certainly.  But  I'm  busy  now,  will  to 
morrow  morning  do  ?  " 

"  Yes,  father." 

"Very  well;  call  here  to-morrow  about 
noon." 

"I  will,  father.    A'Dios." 

"A'Dios,son." 

Left  alone  the  priest  fell  into  a  musing  atti 
tude;  his  slender  right  hand  held  the  book's 
rude  clasp  and  his  dark  eyes  were  fixed  upon 
the  open  page.  He  was  thinking  how,  ever 
since  the  foundation  of  the  Mission,  this  an 
cient  volume  had  been  handed  down  from 
generation  to  generation.  He  remembered 
that  it  had  been  used  at  San  Luis  Eey ;  and 
recalled  the  stirring  incidents  in  church  his 
tory  through  which  the  book  had  passed. 
Twice  during  skirmishes  with  the  Indians  it 
had  been  conveyed  away  in  the  night  for 


132  JUAN  PICO 

safety.  Once  it  had  been  concealed  in  a  bag 
of  oats  and  taken  in  the  bottom  of  a  cart  to 
Santa  Barbara ;  and  once,  near  El  Montecito  it 
was  hidden  in  the  shack  of  a  Mexican  who, 
feeling  honored  by  the  noble  confidence  of  the 
fathers,  had  received  the  volume  and  guarded 
it  as  a  sacred  trust. 

At  last  Father  Jerome  reverently  closed  the 
book,  carried  it  into  the  sacristy,  and  laid  it 
away  in  a  deep  drawer,  where  wrapped  in  the 
old  lace  altar  cloths,  the  gold  and  silver  com 
munion  services  were  kept.  Eeturning  to  the 
study  he  picked  up  a  book  and  sat  down  in 
the  low  window-seat. 

On  the  walls  on  either  side  of  the  window 
were  pictures  of  the  Virgin  of  the  Pillar  and 
the  Virgin  of  Anguish;  over  them  were  ar 
ranged  sacred  palms  and  rosaries.  About  the 
room  were  other  rude  pictures  of  the  Madonna, 
and  also  statuettes  of  the  saints;  all  objects 
dear  to  the  heart  of  every  Catholic. 

Turning  to  look  out  of  the  window,  Father 
Jerome  heard  the  bell  for  vespers  begin  to 
ring.  A  musing  look  came  into  his  eyes. 
How  many  years,  he  thought,  has  that  bell 


JUAN  PICO  133 

rung  at  the  hour  of  twilight!  To  him,  its 
tone  was  almost  human.  For  it  rang  so  joy 
ously  in  May  when  the  city  was  white  in  its 
decoration  for  the  Fete-Dieu,  and  again  it 
moaned  with  such  anguish,  when  the  city  was 
draped  in  black  on  Good  Friday.  As  he  lis 
tened  to  the  bell,  it  rang  loud  and  strong,  then 
low  and  pleading,  now  begging  earnestly  and 
giving  advice,  now  muffled  and  hesitating  and 
now  clear  and  decisive.  To-night  it  spoke  to 
him  more  than  ever  like  a  voice  from  heaven, 
and  he  was  lost  in  peaceful  meditations. 

But  the  bell  ceased  ringing,  and  continuing 
to  look  out  between  the  white  fluttering  win 
dow  curtains,  Father  Jerome  fancied  that  in 
the  first  dusk  of  twilight  the  whiteness  of  the 
lilies  was  exaggerated,  the  gold  dust  of  their 
pollen  made  more  visible,  and  he  welcomed 
the  fresh,  sweet  breath  of  the  garden  that 
reached  him  on  the  uncertain  wings  of  the 
evening  breeze. 

Through  the  half-opened  door  of  his  study 
he  could  see  into  the  church  and  could  catch  a 
side  view  of  the  altar  with  its  starry  line  of 
wax  tapers.  At  one  side  was  a  statue  of  the 


134  JUAN  PICO 

Virgin ;  before  her  a  woman  was  kneeling 
with  arms  outstretched  in  supplication.  Her 
head  was  bowed,  and  in  her  hair  he  saw  a 
streak  of  grey.  As  he  looked  at  her  she  threw 
her  head  back  and  gazed  appealingly  into  the 
sanctified  face  of  the  Mother  of  Sorrows. 
Tears  gushed  from  her  swollen  lids ;  her  face 
was  pale  and  expressive  of  some  great  sorrow. 

Odor  of  incense  and  the  perfume  of  lilies 
mingled  in  the  air  of  the  good  father's  study. 

Outside  the  twilight  symphony  deepened 
slowly  under  a  sky  of  violets  ;  and  flickering 
in  the  arch  of  heaven,  hung  clusters  of  constel 
lations.  Father  Jerome  looked  out  into  the 
garden  again,  as  though  to  find  in  the  face  of 
nature  that  peace  which  had  fled  from  the  face 
of  the  woman  kneeling  at  the  feet  of  the  Yir- 
gin.  Hardly  had  he  done  so,  when  he  heard 
a  knock,  and  looking  up,  saw  the  woman  of 
whom  he  was  thinking  standing  in  the  study 
door.  With  an  air  of  compassion  he  came  to 
meet  her.  He  took  both  her  hands  in  his,  say 
ing: 

"  Peace  be  with  you,  madam." 

She  looked  at  him  almost  beseechingly  from 


JUAN  PICO  135 

under  her  heavy  brows,  asking  in  a  steady 
voice : 

"  You  are  Father  Jerome  ?  " 

"  Yes,  madam." 

"  I  am  Senora  Olga  Gintaris." 

"Ah,"  replied  the  father,  offering  her  a 
chair,  "  if  I  am  not  mistaken,  of  Otero  ranch. 
Some  years  ago  in  returning  from  San  Buen 
aventura  to  Los  Angeles,  I  had  the  pleasure  of 
calling  at  your  place." 

"  Yes,  father,  I  recollect.  It  was  soon  after 
you  came  up  from  San  Diego,  and  I  was  grieved 
to  miss  seeing  you.  I  had  hoped  it  would  be 
convenient  for  you  to  make  Otero  ranch  a 
second  visit." 

"  It  would  afford  me  pleasure,  but  I  seldom 
leave  Los  Angeles,  Senora." 

"  I  understand.  I  know  of  your  devotion  to 
your  people."  As  she  looked  into  the  father's 
emaciated,  yet  handsome  face,  and  at  his  black 
hair  thickly  sprinkled  with  grey,  for  an  in 
stant  Senora  Gintaris  forgot  her  own  suffering. 
"  And  it  is  no  easy  task  to  give  up  one's  life  to 
the  poor  and  suffering.  You  should  take  care, 
father,  that  you  do  not  overtax  yourself," 


136  JUAN  PICO 

"  The  mercy  of  God  is  never  failing,  Senora, 
and  while  we  work  faithfully  in  His  vineyard, 
He  will  not  see  us  lack  strength." 

The  Senora  did  not  reply ;  there  was  a  pause. 
Outside  the  air  was  very  still.  Night  deep 
ened  and  expanded  in  its  wonderful  magnifi 
cence.  It  was  almost  dark.  Father  Jerome 
got  up  and  lighted  the  old  brass  lamp  which 
stood  on  the  table.  Senora  Gintaris  sighed 
deeply ;  when  the  father  was  again  seated  she 
said : 

"Holy  father,  I  am  in  great  affliction. 
Sister  Magdalen,  we  were  girls  together  in  the 
convent  of  San  Luis  Obispo,  has  sent  me  to 
you." 

With  gentleness,  Father  Jerome  replied : 

"  Senora,  any  service  that  I  can  render  you 
or  Sister  Magdalen  I  shall  esteem  a  privilege." 

"  Thank  you."  The  Senora  rose  and  began 
to  walk  slowly  about  the  room.  She  was  un 
able  to  find  words  in  which  to  express  her 
grief. 

Suddenly  from  the  mission,  came  the  sound 
of  music.  Some  children  began  to  sing.  They 
were  being  taught  the  mass.  At  first  above 


JUAN  PICO  137 

the  inwoven  tones  of  the  organ  that  began  in 
low,  almost  inaudible  articulations,  the  voices 
sounded  confused  and  indistinct;  presently 
they  grew  clearer,  more  earnest,  more  entreat 
ing,  imploring,  interceding.  Like  glorious 
harmonies  of  angelic  choirs,  louder  and 
louder,  higher  and  higher,  gushing  heaven 
ward,  rose  the  majestic  music.  Then  slowly, 
very  gradually,  upon  the  listening  air,  the  ex 
quisite  accords  sank  back  from  completion 
into  silence. 

Instead  of  assuaging  her  distress  the  voices 
of  the  young  choristers  threw  Seiiora  Gintaris 
into  an  almost  uncontrollable  fit  of  weeping, 
and  she  stopped  her  footsteps  as  though  to  bat 
tle  for  self-command.  Father  Jerome's  kind 
eyes  rested  upon  her. 

"  Will  you  not  tell  me  what  troubles  you, 
daughter  ?  Speak  freely,  put  it  in  my  power 
to  help  you." 

In  a  broken  voice,  and  with  effort  the  Se- 
nora  began : 

"Four  days  ago  I  discharged  my  head 
ranchman,  Sebastian  Carmelo.  He  had  dis 
obeyed  my  orders — I  told  him  to  leave  the 


138  JUAN  PICO 

ranch  next  day.  He  did  so.  At  the  same 
time  my  adopted  daughter  disappeared — I 
think  he  decoyed  her  away  with  him." 

"  How  old  is  your  daughter  ?  " 

"  She  is  thirteen ;  a  mere  child,  father,  a  mere 
child.  Brought  up  away  from  the  world,  she 
knows  nothing  of  its  wickedness." 

"  By  what  means  do  you  think  he  induced 
her  to  go  with  him  ?"  thoughtfully  asked  the 
priest. 

"  I  cannot  tell.  I  have  no  idea.  Unless  it 
was  by  promises  to  show  her  Los  Angeles. 
The  child  has  long  been  anxious  to  come  here. 
But  this  may  be  only  an  idle  conjecture, 
father." 

"  I  understand.  What  reason  have  you  for 
believing  that  they  are  in  the  city  ?  " 

"  He  told  different  people  about  the  ranch 
that  he  was  coming  here." 

"  You  have  no  other  proof  ?  he  might  have 
said  that  to  mislead." 

"  Yes,  yes,  father,  but  on  the  road  leading 
this  way  I  found  my  daughter's  rosary." 

"  That,  too,  might  be  a  subterfuge." 

"  But,  father,  at  San  Fernando  I  learned  that 


JUAN  PICO  139 

a  man  answering  his  description  accompanied 
by  a  girl  had  passed  through  there,  coming 
this  way." 

"  Then  in  all  probability  they  are  here  now. 
We  must  commence  the  search  immediately. 
So  far,  what  has  been  done  ?  " 

"I  reached  here  day  before  yesterday  at 
midnight.  By  daybreak  Sister  Magdalen  had 
employed  two  trusted  men.  They  have  been 
looking  ever  since,  but  so  far  without  discover 
ing  the  slightest  clue." 

"  Doubtless  he  has  the  child  hidden  in  some 
obscure  part  of  the  city." 

The  Senora  quickly  rose  to  her  feet : 

"  What  can  you  suggest  ?  I  will  bear  any 
expense.  Money  is  not  to  be  considered. 
Give  me  your  advice,  father." 

"  My  daughter,  calm  yourself ;  be  assured  I 
will  lend  you  every  aid  in  my  power." 

As  the  Senora  resumed  her  seat,  he  asked : 

"  Has  this  man  any  friends  in  the  city  that 
you  know  of  ?  " 

"  I  think  not.  He  is  now  quite  old,  and  be 
fore  he  came  to  Otero  ranch,  I  hear,  he  led  a 
roving  life,  O,  father,  he  has  a  revengeful, 


140  JUAN  PICO 

wicked  nature.  Like  a  dove  in  the  power  of  a 
serpent,  my  child  is  in  danger.  If  she  cannot 
come  back  to  me  as  she  left  me,  I  pray  God 
for  her  death.  Help  me,  father,  help  me ! 
She  must  be  found." 

Senora  Gintaris  stood  erect,  almost  rigid, 
her  hands  nervously  clutching  at  her  gown. 

Father  Jerome  arose,  saying : 

"  My  daughter,  I  will  not  only  go  myself, 
but  I  will  arrange  with  others  to  search 
throughout  the  city  and  its  suburbs.  If  your 
child  is  here,  she  shall  be  restored  to  you." 

Senora  Gintaris  could  only  reply  faintly : 

"You  shall  have  my  everlasting  gratitude." 
She  turned  to  leave. 

"  But  before  you  go,  Senora,  give  me  a  de 
scription  of  your  daughter  and  of  the  man." 

Again  the  Senora  seated  herself,  and  as  she 
watched  Father  Jerome  write  down  the  mi 
nute  descriptions  she  gave  of  the  pair,  an  ex 
pression  of  hopefulness  came  into  her  face. 
When  she  paused,  the  father  asked  : 

"  Is  there  any  further  particular  ?  " 

"  Yes, — Anita's  guitar  is  also  missing.  She 
plays  and  sings — like  a  bird — father."  Kis- 


JUAN  PICO  141 

ing,  the  Senora  turned  away ;  she  could  not 
conceal  her  tears. 

Father  Jerome  went  with  her  to  the  door, 
saying : 

"Place  your  dependence  in  the  Holy  Sav 
iour  of  mankind.  Ask  the  intercession  of  the 
Blessed  Yirgin.  But  to-night,  my  daughter, 
you  must  not  pray,  but  rest."  He  made  a 
motion  as  if  to  bless  her,  and  the  Senora 
dropped  upon  one  knee.  Extending  his  out 
stretched  hand  above  her,  he  said : 

"  May  the  peace  and  the  blessing  of  God  be 
upon  you."  The  Senora  made  the  sign  of  the 
cross  and  quietly  left  the  study. 


TEX 

"  And  she  was  lost, — and  yet  I  breathed, 

But  not  the  breath  of  human  life ; 
A  serpent  round  my  heart  was  wreathed, 
And  stung  my  very  thoughts  to  strife." 

— BYRON. 

FATHER  JEROME  was  seated  before  the 
large  table  in  his  study,  trying  to  repair  a 
statuette  of  Saint  Joseph. 

Crossing  the  meridian  the  golden  sun  dif 
fused  its  brilliancy  everywhere ;  even  in  the 
study  the  light  was  dazzling  as  though  full  of 
something  rare  and  precious. 

Through  an  open  door  could  be  seen  the 
walls  of  the  sacristy.  They  were  covered 
with  red,  green  and  gold  representations  of 
the  miracles  accomplished  by  the  Virgin. 
Hearing  footsteps,  the  father  looked  up,  and 
standing  in  the  doorway  of  the  sacristy  he 
saw  Juan. 

"  Is  that  you,  son  ?  Come  in."  Taking  up 
an  envelope  addressed  to  Father  Ambrose,  he 
said,  "  here  is  the  copy  of  the  record.  Would 
142 


JUAN  PICO  143 

you  like  me  to  send  it  to  Father  Ambrose  or 
will  you?" 

"  Thank  you,  I'll  see  that  he  gets  it,  father." 

"  Very  well,  son,  as  you  like."  Father  Je 
rome  had  dropped  his  eyes  to  his  work;  he 
found  it  somewnat  difficult  to  prevent  Saint 
Joseph  from  again  losing  his  head.  Juan  saw 
the  father's  predicament : 

"  Can  I  help  you  with  that  mending, 
father?" 

"  Thank  you,  it  would  oblige  me."  Juan 
went  nearer  to  the  priest. 

"  Place  your  finger  just  here.  To  the  right 
a  little ;  that's  it.  Now  I  can  bind  this  cord 
around." 

As  he  bound  on  the  head  of  the  statuette, 
Father  Jerome  mused : 

"Ah,  son,  this  is  the  way  Satan  binds  us 
with  our  sins,  is  it  not  ?  Only,  we  have  the 
power  to  prevent  him  if  we  will.  But  so 
often,  so  often,  we  do  not  resist ;  then  when 
we  are  almost  helpless,  we  cry  to  God  and 
sometimes  chide  him ;  the  good  God,  for  what 
we  ourselves  are  to  blame.  Yet,  because  he 
is  good,  he  always  forgives,  always.  There 


144  JUAN  PICO 

it  is  done ;  you  need  not  hold  it  any  longer." 
Moving  across  the  room  Father  Jerome  placed 
the  statuette  on  a  shelf,  saying : 

"By  to-morrow  Saint  Joseph  will  forget 
that  he  has  ever  been  injured." 

He  turned  around  and  noticed  Juan  stand 
ing. 

"  But  sit  down,  son." 

The  priest  motioned  Juan  to  take  the  low 
window  seat.  Erect  in  the  still  air,  flowers 
held  up  their  heads  and  stared  in  upon  them. 

"  Father,  you  are  good  to  take  all  this  trou 
ble  for  me." 

"  Tut,  tut,  trouble  ?  Nothing  is  trouble  that 
is  one's  duty.  I  am  glad  I  was  able  to  help 
you.  To  have  a  copy  of  the  record  was  what 
you  wanted.  It  has  made  you  happier  to  have 
it,  has  it  not  ?  "  Juan  bowed  his  head.  "  Ah, 
I  knew  it  had.  Then  no  more  thanks,  for  I 
am  well  repaid." 

"Can  I  do  anything  for  you,  father?  If 
I  can,  I'll  do  it." 

"  You  will,  son  ?  " 

"  I'll  do  anything  I  can  for  you." 

"  Then  you  are  divinely  sent.     I  have  some- 


JUAN  PICO  145 

thing  that  you  can  do  for  me  at  once."  Father 
Jerome  took  Juan's  big  hand  in  his,  looked 
intently  into  his  face  and  said  in  a  slow  voice : 

"  A  woman  for  whom  I  have  a  great  regard 
has  come  to  me  in  distress.  I  have  promised 
to  aid  her." 

"Yes,  father,"  Juan  listened,  but  his  eyes 
rested  upon  the  newly -mended  statuette. 

"  Her  daughter,  a  young  girl  has  left  home, 
has  run  away.  She  fears  the  child  has  been 
enticed  to  Los  Angeles  by  a  discharged  serv 
ant.  Now  you  are  a  man  that  I  can  trust 
to  help  look  for  her.  The  Senora  wishes  to 
avoid  publicity,  therefore  the  search  must  be 
conducted  quietly.  I  will  give  you  a  descrip 
tion  of  the  two."  Father  Jerome  paused,  then 
added : 

"You  are  willing  to  help  me  in  this  mat 
ter?" 

"Yes,  father,  tell  me  what  they  look  like 
and  I  will  go  now." 

"That  is  well.  The  girl  is  about  thirteen 
years  old,  very  pretty;  on  that  account  the 
Senora  has  many  fears  for  her  safety.  She  is 
slender,  of  medium  height,  has  large  blue  eyes, 


146  JUAN  PICO 

chestnut  hair  and  handsome  teeth.  The  day 
she  left  home  she  was  dressed  in  an  old  faded 
blue  gown,  and  wore  a  large  straw  hat  with 
roses  on  it." 

Juan  no  longer  looked  at  the  statuette ;  he 
looked  at  Father  Jerome  and  sat  very  still. 

Father  Jerome  continued : 

"And  the  man,  let  me  see,  what  does  he 
look  like  ?  Ah,  yes,  Senora  Gintaris  said  — " 

"  Senora  Gintaris !  then  it  is  Anita !  "  Juan 
sprang  to  his  feet.  "  Who  is  she  with  ?  " 

"  With  a  man  named  Sebastian  Carmelo." 

"  Oh ! "    Juan  paced  the  floor,  excitedly. 

"But  do  you  know  this  girl?"  asked  the 
priest. 

Juan  made  no  reply ;  suddenly  he  turned : 

"  When  did  they  leave  Otero  ranch  ?  " 

"Two  days  ago.  Again  I  ask,  do  you  know 
this  girl?" 

"  Know  her !  I  have  known  her  nearly  all 
her  life.  Father,  I — I  love  her."  He  began 
to  walk  the  floor  again,  saying :  "  I  will  find 
Sebastian, — I  will  kill  him ! " 

Juan  was  pale,  his  eyes  flashed,  his  deep 
chest  heaved  and  his  lips  trembled.  He  was 


JUAN  PICO  147 

possessed  by  an  uncontrollable  indignation.  He 
uttered  disconnected  words  and  broken  threats. 
Father  Jerome  looked  at  him  gravely : 

"Do  not  give  way  to  such  blind  passion, 
son.  Eemember,  '  Vengeance  is  mine  saith 
the  Lord,  I  will  repay.'  Leave  this  man's 
punishment  to  God." 

Juan  stopped  walking ;  he  glared  around 
him  like  a  desperately  wounded  bull.  Father 
Jerome  went  up  to  him  and  placed  a  hand  on 
his  shoulder : 

"  Promise  me  you  will  not  harm  this  man  ?  " 

Juan  looked  up  doggedly  but  made  no  reply. 

"  Then,  as  God's  representative,  I  forbid  you 
to  touch  him."  Father  Jerome  went  to  the 
crucifix  and  sank  upon  his  knees : 

"  Oh,  Holy  Saviour !  help  this  son  of  Thine, 
help  him  to  find  the  lost,  and  keep  the  one  he 
loves  from  harm." 

Juan  dashed  from  the  room ;  his  whole  be 
ing  ablaze  with  passion  he  rushed  out  into 
the  street.  Like  one  bereft  of  reason  he 
clenched  his  hands  so  tightly  that  the  nails 
cut  into  the  flesh.  A  terrible  fear  assailed 
him.  He  knew  that  for  years  Sebastian  had 


148  JUAN  PICO 

cherished  a  smouldering  hatred  for  the  Senora, 
and  that  for  years  the  Senora  had  despised 
Sebastian,  but  each  had  found  the  other  use 
ful.  The  Senora  liked  homage,  Sebastian 
liked  authority,  and  until  now,  they  had  con 
tinued  to  tolerate  one  another.  But  at  last 
Sebastian  was  in  a  position  to  glut  his  hatred, 
and  what  might  he  not  do  ?  what  awful  thing 
might  he  not  accomplish  ?  Juan  ran  his  fin 
gers  through  his  thick  black  hair.  He  must 
find  Anita  and  take  her  back  in  safety  to 
the  Senora.  He  must — he  must.  He  was 
ready  to  hazard  even  his  hopes  of  heaven. 

Hurrying  along  the  street  he  scanned  the 
faces  of  all  he  saw.  The  sun  beat  down  with 
such  power  that  the  air  trembled  as  with  an 
impending  fear.  Every  one  sought  the  shade 
but  Juan ;  he  alone,  did  not  notice  the  intense 
heat.  Lighting  one  cigarette  after  another 
he  would  take  a  puff  or  two,  then  throw  them 
away  into  the  street.  He  turned  into  Senora 
Town ;  it  was  quiet,  every  one  here  had  caught 
from  day  its  laziness.  In  front  of  the  deserted 
shops,  seated  on  boxes  or  old  chairs,  were  the 
shop-keepers  blissfully  smoking.  Bits  of  idle 


JUAN  PICO  149 

gossip  passed  along  from  one  to  another; 
crossed  the  street  and  eddied  away  in  the  dis 
tance  like  autumn  leaves  upon  a  stream. 

Juan  Pico  appeared  on  the  corner. 

"  There  is  Juan  Pico,  son  of  the  fool  million 
aire,"  said  one  idler  to  another. 

"Fool  millionaire?" 

"  Yes,  any  man's  a  fool  to  give  the  amount 
of  money  he  did  to  the  church.  And  what 
thanks  did  he  get  for  it  ?  Not  any.  Might 
as  well  have  thrown  the  money  into  the  street 
for  all  the  good  it  did  him." 

In  advance  of  Juan,  this  announcement  ran 
down  the  street,  and  as  he  came  along  dressed 
in  his  old  Mexican  costume,  all  eyes  were  fixed 
on  him.  His  trousers  were  of  sulphur  colored 
corduroy,  slashed  at  the  knee  with  claret  silk, 
which  fell  in  fan-like  plaits  to  his  feet.  About 
his  waist  he  wore  a  dull-red  silk  sash.  Over 
his  white  shirt  was  a  gold  tinselled  jacket,  and 
on  his  finely  shaped  head  rested  a  gray  som 
brero  surrounded  by  a  carved  leather  band. 
He  had  scarcely  passed  two  men  who  had 
been  staring  at  him  with  unconcealed  curios 
ity,  when  one  said  to  the  other : 


150  JUAN  PICO 

"Oh,  I  know  him,  I've  seen  him  before, 
he's  a  high-stake  gambler." 

Juan  heard  this  remark  and  he  might  have 
heard  others,  but  he  paid  no  attention ;  he  was 
gazing  earnestly  into  the  shops.  Soon  he  came 
to  Madam  Gonfarone's  saloon.  Here  he  went 
in.  The  ceiling  was  low  and  the  heavy 
beams  almost  touched  his  head.  Between  the. 
beams  in  alternate  rows  were  hanging  dried 
fish  and  apples.  About  the  room  were  a  num 
ber  of  tables,  around  which  several  gamblers 
were  seated  playing  cards.  Sailors  and  smug 
glers  resorted  to  the  place,  and  so  out  of  com 
pliment  to  them  the  walls  were  decorated  with 
two  or  three  old  prints  of  vessels  in  full  sail. 
Behind  the  bar  was  a  miniature  ship  made  of 
shells.  At  the  further  end  of  the  room,  in  a 
place  of  honor,  very  old  and  colored  in  simple 
style,  was  a  statue  of  Saint  Peter.  What  re 
volting  scenes  he  must  have  witnessed !  What 
oaths  he  must  have  listened  to !  He,  who  had 
also  denied  his  Lord. 

The  air  was  stifling ;  there  was  no  ventila 
tion  in  the  room  except  through  the  open 
door. 


JUAN  PICO  151 

As  Juan  entered,  Madam  Gonfarone  canie 
from  behind  the  bar  and  stepped  into  the  cen 
tre  of  the  room.  She  began  to  dance.  Every 
one  was  expected  to  pay  attention  and  to  be 
amused  at  anything  the  madam  was  pleased  to 
do.  So  all  eyes  in  the  place  were  turned  upon 
her. 

At  first  the  woman  danced  a  solemn  meas 
ure,  very  slow  in  step  and  gesture ;  then  hold 
ing  one  hand  above  her  head,  as  with  a 
castanet,  and  with  the  other  imitating  the 
movements  of  a  hand  striking  the  strings  of  a 
guitar,  she  began  in  a  cracked  voice  to  sing. 
Throwing  down  their  cards  the  men  burst  into 
uproarious  laughter.  Juan  silently  leaned 
against  the  bar. 

At  last  the  madam  finished  amid  a  furor  of 
applause.  But  she  would  not  accept  an  en 
core: 

"No,  I'm  too  fat.  Besides  you  want  too 
much.  You've  already  had  more  than  your 
money's  worth." 

One  of  her  audience  called  out : 

"You're  getting  stingy  of  your  charms, 
ain't  you,  madam  ?  " 


152  JUAN  PICO 

"  Getting  ?  "  replied  another.  "  Madam  ain't 
never  been  over-free  with  her  voice." 

"  'Cause  she  couldn't  afford  to  be,  if  she 
wanted  to  have  any  left  for  herself." 

Madam  Gonfarone  turned  quickly  to  the 
half-drunken  sailor :  « 

"  Here  you,  shut  up  !  If  you  don't  like  my 
voice,  do  you  know  what  you  can  do  ?  You 
can  clear  out.  You  can  clear  out,  anyway ;  I 
don't  want  you  in  here  any  more." 

"  Oh,  madam  is  touchy." 

"Yes,  I'm  touchy.  Do  you  hear  what  I 
say  ?  Clear  out  of  here.  Drunken,  lazy 
loafer  you." 

"  You're  mad  because  I  think  you  can't 
sing,  eh?  Well,  you  can't,  and  everybody 
knows  it.  If  you'd  been  in  the  cathedral  the 
other  night  as  I  was  " — 

"  Saying  your  prayers,  eh  ?  "  snapped  the 
madam.  "Well,  it's  time.  You'll  have  to 
work  harder  than  I've  ever  known  you  to,  if 
you  catch  up.  If  you  get  into  heaven,  there 
won't  be  many  left  on  the  outside." 

In  a  maudlin  voice  the  sailor  continued  : 

"  As  I  was  a-sayin',  if  you'd  been  in  the 


JUAN  PICO  153 

cathedral — hie — you'd  heard  a  girl  sing  for 
nothin'.  An'  she  had  somethin'  in  her  throat 
worth  callin'  a  voice.'1 

"  She  sung  for  nothing,  eh  ?  "  The  madam 
tossed  her  head.  "Must  have  been  free  if 
you  heard  it." 

"  Yes,  I  heard  it,  an'  I  heard  it  for  nothin'. 
An'  I  was  the  only  one  that  did  hear  it  be 
sides  the  old  man  who  was  with  her  an'  the 
organist." 

Juan  leaned  forward,  asking  quickly : 
"  How  old  was  the  girl  ?  was  she  pretty  ?  " 
The  sailor  braced  himself  to  reply  : 
"  Hie, — 'scuse  me.    Pretty  ?   I — s-should  call 
her — lovely." 

"  Ha,  ha !  "  Madam  Gonfarone  laughed 
coarsely,  "  Hear  the  old  fool.  What  does  he 
know  about  anything's  being  lovely  ?  That's 
rich!  Let's  have  a  drink  on  that."  Going 
behind  the  bar,  madam  poured  out  drinks  for 
all  in  the  saloon.  Turning  to  Juan,  she  said : 
"  You're  one  of  us,  ain't  you  ?  Come,  have 
one  off  me." 

All  drained  their  glasses,  drinking  to  the 
madam's  very  good  health.  Then  Juan 


154  JUAN  PICO 

treated  the  crowd,  who  voted  him  a  good  fel 
low,  one  of  the  right  sort.  When  they  had 
drunk,  Juan  questioned  the  sailor  further : 

"  You  say  the  girl  at  the  cathedral  was  with 
an  old  man  ?  " 

"Yes,  that's  what  I— said." 

"  What  did  he  look  like  ?  " 

"  He — he  had  a  long  white  beard  an'  white 
hair.  He  looked  like  s — hie — s-Saint  Peter 
up  there  on  the  wall." 

Juan  stared  at  the  man,  but  for  the  moment 
he  was  not  conscious  that  he  looked  at  any 
one.  An  avalanche  of  fire  rolled  over  him ; 
it  was  true,  then,  Anita  was  in  Los  Angeles 
in  the  power  of  Sebastian. 

"  Oh,  I've  seen  that  old  codger,"  exclaimed 
the  madam ;  "  he's  a  sly  one,  he  is  ;  he  was  in 
here  the  other  night,  half  drunk,  asking  about 
when  the  ships  sailed.  He  didn't  seem  to 
know  what  he  wanted  though.  First,  he  said 
he  was  going  to  San  Diego ;  well,  I  told  him 
the  days  he  could  go.  Then,  he  said  he  be 
lieved  he'd  go  to  San  Francisco.  I  told  him 
the  Queen  sailed  to-day,  and  he  went  out  say 
ing  he  guessed  he'd  take  it," 


JUAN  PICO  155 

Juan  set  his  glass  down  upon  the  bar  with 
such  violence  that  the  wine  splashed  over  and 
ran  down  through  his  fingers.  His  lips 
twitched,  but  it  was  some  time  before  he  could 
speak : 

"  Did  he  say  anything  about  the  girl  ?  " 
Madam  Gonfarone  turned  to  the  crowd : 
"  Now  he's  waked  up  that  there's  a  girl  in 
the  case.     Yes,  he  said  the  Thrush,  his  daugh 
ter,  was  looking  for  an  engagement  to  sing. 
She's  a  professional,"  madam  dwelt  comically 
upon  the  word  professional,  then  made  a  little 
courtesy,  adding,  "  like  myself." 

All  the  men  but  Juan  laughed,  and  one  or 
two  nudged  each  other  as  much  as  to  say  the 
madam  was  still  a  pretty  smart  woman. 

Juan  could  scarcely  breathe,  the  hot  air  of 
the  room  sickened  him.  In  the  still  atmos 
phere  the  clouds  of  smoke  lay  motionless. 
His  cheeks  burned,  he  felt  as  if  every  drop  of 
blood  had  gone  to  his  head.  Paying  the 
madam  what  he  owed  her,  he  went  into  the 
street.  Gold  of  midday  had  changed  to  yel 
low  ochre.  A  wind  had  come  up  from  the 
sea.  Evening  was  not  far  distant. 


156  JUAN  PICO 

Up  the  street,  he  again  passed  the  shops, 
where  some  of  the  proprietors  were  still  sit 
ting  outside,  but  to  keep  in  the  shade  and  out 
of  the  declining  sun  they  had  been  forced  to 
move  a  yard  or  two. 

Juan  looked  neither  to  the  right  nor  to  the 
left,  but  kept  on  until  he  reached  the  main 
street  and  the  headquarters  for  transportation 
north. 

"  When  does  the  next  boat  go  to  San  Fran 
cisco  ?  " 

"  On  Thursday." 

"  Give  me  a  ticket." 

Arrangements  completed,  he  left  the  place. 
"Walking  on  down  the  street  he  came  to  resi 
dences.  Over  the  old  stone  garden  walls, 
looking  like  clusters  of  gold,  great  Ophir  roses 
hung.  The  familiar  miracle  of  night  ad 
vanced  ;  into  the  melancholy  splendor  of  the 
atmosphere  stole  the  sweet  perfume  of  honey 
suckles.  Juan  was  not  conscious  of  these 
things ;  he  knew  only  that  night  was  near ;  he 
took  off  his  sombrero  and  walked  on  bare 
headed. 


ELEVEN 

"  The  setting  of  a  great  hope  is  like  the  setting  of  the  sun— 
the  lightness  of  our  life  is  gone." 

— LONGFELLOW'S  PROSE. 

NEXT  morning  with  a  feeling  of  almost  un 
alloyed  pleasure,  Anita  stepped  into  the  cart 
that  was  to  carry  them  where  the  sailing  ves 
sel  lay  moored.  Sebastian  had  persuaded  her 
that  at  San  Diego  they  would  surely  find 
Juan. 

Above  her,  the  glory  of  the  early  sunshine 
filled  the  burning  blue  of  the  sky  as  a  cup  is 
filled  with  wine.  Pepper  and  blooming 
faintly  fragrant  eucalyptus  trees  were  on 
either  hand;  flowers  crowded  to  the  cart 
wheels.  At  last  the  breath  of  the  sea  moved 
the  leaves  and  flowerets  and  lifted  the  soft 
rings  from  Anita's  forehead.  When  they 
came  in  sight  of  the  ocean,  she  stood  up  and 
gazed  upon  it,  over  the  heads  of  the  slow 
moving  oxen.  And  when  they  finally  came 
to  the  place  of  embarkation,  she  jumped  to 

157 


158  JUAN  PICO 

the  ground  with  impetuous  haste.  A  small 
boat  took  them  out  to  the  ship. 

Once  on  board,  Sebastian  ordered  her  to 
tell  no  one  her  name  or  where  they  were 
going. 

"  You  see,  Anita,  we  want  to  surprise  Juan, 
and  if  we  tell  people  who  we  are,  he  may 
hear  that  we  are  in  San  Diego  before  we  see 
him." 

"  But,  Sebastian,  I  don't  care  if  he  does.  If 
we  can  only  once  get  to  him." 

"  We  will,  we  will.  San  Diego  is  a  small 
place,  and  we  shall  easily  find  him." 

By  and  by,  it  was  an  interminable  time  to 
Anita,  she  saw  the  anchor  hoisted  and  the 
sails  set.  She  smiled  to  feel  the  ship  moving 
beneath  her.  They  were  off,  and  she  was 
nestled  in  the  feathers  of  one  of  the  great 
birds.  And  it  would  wing  its  way  southward 
to  Juan. 

Sebastian  went  below,  and  left  Anita  in  the 
care  of  a  young  Mexican  woman  with  two 
children.  In  a  little  while  Anita  had  taken 
the  baby  in  her  arms  and  was  playing  with  it. 
The  elder  child,  a  bright-eyed  boy  looked  at 


JUAN  PICO  159 

Anita  with  the  gravity  of  an  old  man.  Sud 
denly  he  turned  to  his  mother,  asking : 

"  Madre,  is  she  the  Holy  Virgin  ?  " 

The  Mexican  mother  in  fear  that  such  sacri 
lege  would  bring  them  harm,  quickly  drew 
the  child  to  her,  saying  with  suppressed  excite 
ment : 

"  Hush,  no !  You  must  not  say  such  things. 
Call  the  young  lady,  Senorita."  Then,  with 
grave  looks  and  serious  tones,  the  woman  en 
deavored  to  impress  upon  the  childish  mind 
the  sense  of  a  great  sin  committed.  But 
Anita  with  the  laughing  baby  on  her  arm 
sitting  beside  the  sunburned  mother,  made  a 
pretty  picture ;  and  the  sense  of  sin  was  not 
great  enough  to  prevent  the  boy  from  stand 
ing  at  a  little  distance  and  admiring  her. 
After  a  time  the  baby  grew  fretful  and  Anita 
soothed  it  by  singing  a  caressing  Spanish  lul 
laby.  The  serious  boy  took  his  station  close 
beside  her.  Quite  motionless  he  watched  her 
with  an  air  of  wondering  worship.  When  the 
song  was  finished  he  repeated  in  a  soft  little 
voice : 

"  Gracias,  carissima  Senorita." 


160  JUAN  PICO 

When  sunset  came  and  the  Mexican  mother 
and  her  children  had  gone  below,  Anita  sat 
alone ;  and  looking  out  over  the  flashing  briny 
radiance  of  the  sea,  she  mused  upon  it  as 
though  it  held  for  her  the  wonders  of  the  sea 
of  glass. 

During  the  days  that  made  up  the  voyage, 
she  spent  many  hours  playing  with  the  chil 
dren  and  singing  to  them.  The  boy  became 
her  almost  constant  companion.  Sebastian 
disturbed  her  very  seldom ;  but  he  was  rest 
less  and  looked  at  her  frequently  from  across 
the  deck,  as  though  baffled  or  impatient.  In 
Anita's  quiet  moods  he  never  approached  her. 
Whether,  because  she  no  longer  had  the  pro 
tection  of  home,  or,  because  love  was  teaching 
her  to  know  her  own  heart,  Anita  was  passing 
rapidly  from  girlhood  into  womanhood.  And 
the  divinity  embodied  in  her,  like  a  two-edged 
sword,  kept  Sebastian  at  a  distance.  To  his 
eyes  her  growing  thoughtfulness  made  her,  if 
possible,  more  beautiful,  but,  like  a  veil  en 
veloping  her,  made  her  more  remote. 

The  great  bird  gracefully  sailed  along  and 
Anita  could  soe  to  the  east  the  yellow  hills  of 


JUAN  PICO  161 

the  mainland,  and  to  the  west,  as  they  rose  and 
disappeared,  Santa  Catalina  and  San  Clemente. 
But  she  grew  tired  of  sailing  and  joyfully  wel 
comed  at  last  the  port  of  San  Diego.  Looking 
toward  the  land,  the  weary  voyagers  saw  the 
feathery  palms  planted  years  ago  by  the  mis 
sion  fathers,  then,  the  white-walled  buildings, 
and  finally,  set  in  its  background  of  distant 
peaks,  the  town  itself,  that  up  a  gentle  slope 
fell  back  from  the  beautifully  curving  beach. 

With  mutual  exclamations  of  delight,  Anita 
lifted  her  little  companion  up  so  that  he  could 
see  what  was  going  on.  But  he  was  heavy 
for  her  girlish  strength,  so  she  helped  him  up 
on  a  pile  of  boxes  and  stood  beside  him,  hold 
ing  him  closely  to  her,  his  dark  head  against 
her  rosy  cheek.  Sebastian  came  up. 

"  Well,  Anita,  here  we  are  at  San  Diego  ;  " 
he  turned  to  the  woman,  "it  is  a  beautiful 
town,  is  it  not,  Senora  ?  " 

"Yes,  Senor." 

"  Anita,  you  shall  see  everything,  and  there 
is  much  to  see,  too.  First,  I  will  show  you  the 
mission,  and  where  the  noble  Padre  Jaume 
was  murdered  by  the  Indians." 


162  JUAN  PICO 

"  Yes,  Senorita,  you  will  see  the  very  place 
under  the  sacred  palms  where  he  was  killed 
and  where  he  held  up  his  crucifix  and  cried : 
*  Oh,  help  me,  Jesus,  save  my  soul ! ' "  dramat 
ically  exclaimed  the  Mexican  woman;  after 
a  pause  she  added  slowly,  "and  the  good 
father  has  long  since  joined  the  saints  in 
glory." 

There  was  no  opportunity  to  continue  the 
conversation,  for  all  were  absorbed  in  the  prep 
arations  being  made  to  cast  anchor.  Kopes 
whizzed  and  rattled.  "With  jarring  emphasis, 
commands  and  curses  rang  out.  Presently, 
the  sails  themselves  began  to  creak,  and  with 
satisfaction  Anita  saw  the  great  white  wings 
slowly  folded.  The  flight  was  finished.  Lit 
tle  boats  crept  alongside.  Voices  hailed  from 
them  and  from  the  decks  of  vessels  anchored 
near.  Sebastian  took  Anita's  hand  in  his, 
saying : 

"  We  shall  soon  be  on  land  now  and  in  the 
shadow  of  San  Miguel.  In  a  little  while  I 
will  show  you  the  table-lands  of  Mexico." 

Anita  did  not  reply.  She  withdrew  her 
hand  and  a  slight  sigh  escaped  her  half -open 


JUAN  PICO  163 

lips.  Sebastian's  eyes  narrowed  like  those  of 
a  cat  emerging  from  the  dark  and  he  said 
with  a  touch  of  harshness : 

"  Get  ready  to  go  ashore,  we  must  not  waste 
time." 

Deeply  engrossed  with  other  thoughts,  Anita 
passed  this  speech  unnoticed,  and  except  that 
she  mechanically  took  upon  her  arm  the  shawl 
that  Sebastian  had  brought  to  her,  she  gave 
no  other  indication  that  she  had  heard  what 
he  said. 

It  came  their  turn  to  disembark.  Anita 
was  helped  into  a  dipping,  tossing  boat.  It 
danced  over  the  springing  waves ;  it  kept  time 
with  the  agitations  of  her  heart.  They  reached 
the  landing  place ;  she  stepped  out  upon  the 
shore  with  the  eagerness  of  one  entering  the 
promised  land. 

Without  giving  Anita  time  to  say  good-bye 
to  the  Mexican  mother  and  her  children,  Se 
bastian  led  the  way  up  the  road.  When  they 
were  some  distance  away  from  the  shore,  he 
dropped  back  beside  Anita.  At  one  moment 
he  was  silent,  at  the  next,  garrulous ;  but  at 
all  times  he  wished  to  appear  magnificent  in 


164  JUAN  PICO 

her  eyes.  Looking  about  as  they  passed  along, 
he  exclaimed : 

"  Ah,  Anita,  in  the  days  when  I  lived  here, 
I  was  rich  and  a  famous  vaquero.  No  one 
could  throw  the  lasso  further  or  tame  a  mus 
tang  quicker  than  I." 

And  so  he  talked,  until  he  was  quite  out  of 
breath.  Although  Anita  listened,  she  betrayed 
but  slight  interest.  Her  eyes  were  searching 
for  a  sight  of  Juan. 

After  a  time  they  came  to  a  small  lodging 
house.  Here  they  stopped  for  the  night. 

Next  morning,  Sebastian  told  Anita  to  rest 
in  the  house,  while  he  would  go  out  and 
make  inquiries  about  Juan.  In  a  little  while 
he  came  back  apparently  overjoyed  as  he 
said: 

"  I  was  quite  right,  Anita.     Juan  is  here." 

Anita  gave  an  exclamation  of  delight. 

"  Yes,"  continued  Sebastian,  "  Juan  came 
to  San  Diego  a  week  ago,  but  he  is  not  here 
now ; "  anticipating  Anita's  disappointment,  he 
added  quickly,  "  he's  gone  out  to  a  ranch  near 
here.  He's  coming  back  to-morrow." 

Drawing  a  long  breath  Anita  gave  a  sigh 


JUAN  PICO  165 

of  relief :  "  Oh,  I'm  so  glad  we  came,  aren't 
you,  Sebastian  ?  " 

"  Of  course  I  am,  of  course.  But  come,  put 
on  your  hat,  and  I'll  take  you  down  to  the 
beach.  There's  no  use  of  our  staying  here, 
doing  nothing." 

Her  heart  full  to  overflowing  with  joy, 
Anita  obeyed  and  spent  the  day  with  Sebas 
tian  near  the  ocean.  They  stayed  upon  the 
shore  until  the  great  round  sun  of  blood  and 
fire  had  fallen  into  the  sea.  Evening  shadows 
lengthened,  and  as  they  came  back,  on  either 
hand  the  landscape  became  indistinct.  The 
sandy  road  was  forsaken,  empty  of  travelers 
or  of  laborers.  Little  stars  looked  down. 
Clouds  came  up  out  of  the  sea.  Gusts  of 
wind  arose  and  died  away.  Night  fell  deso 
late  and  sad,  after  a  day  of  golden  bright 
ness. 

Next  day,  at  night,  Sebastian  came  to  Anita 
saying : 

"Juan  has  not  come  back  to-day,  but  he 
will  surely  come  to-morrow." 

And  the  next  day  he  said : 

"  Juan  has  sent  word  that  he  will  be  away 


166  JUAN  PICO 

for  some  days ;  he  has  gone  to  a  ranch  several 
miles  further  off." 

"  Oh,  Sebastian !  "  exclaimed  Anita,  disap 
pointedly. 

"  Now  you  must  be  patient,  Anita,  patient. 
When  Juan  has  attended  to  his  business,  he 
will  return.'' 

And  so  Sebastian  put  the  child  off.  For  a 
long  time  he  invented  excuses  for  Juan's  ab 
sence,  many  of  them  so  flimsy,  that  if  Anita 
had  not  been  brought  up  out  of  the  world  and 
absolutely  dependent  upon  the  will  of  another, 
she  would  quickly  have  recognized  them  as 
false. 

Through  all  his  deceptions,  Sebastian  strove 
cunningly  to  turn  Anita's  thought  from  Juan, 
to  himself. 

Only  a  few  days  elapsed  before  Sebastian 
hired  an  isolated  house  that  had  formerly  been 
occupied  by  a  ranchero.  It  was  a  low  Mexi 
can  adobe  with  three  small  rooms,  and  an 
overhanging  roof  of  terra  cotta  tiles;  many 
of  which,  had  slipped  from  their  places. 
Along  in  front  of  the  house  was  an  old 
adobe  wall ;  so  that  the  dwellers  in  the  house 


JUAN  PICO  167 

could  not  see,  nor  be  seen,  by  those  who  in 
frequently  passed  that  way.  Stretching  to 
the  rear  of  the  house  and  off  to  both  sides 
was  a  grove  of  gnarled  and  ancient  olive 
trees.  Among  them,  planted  irregularly, 
were  lemon,  orange  and  apricots.  Under  the 
shadow  of  a  clump  of  date  palms,  stood  the 
house,  almost  embowered  in  vines  and  in  all 
directions  crowded  upon  by  a  neglected  vege 
tation. 

In  this  rude  shelter,  Sebastian  collected  a 
few  indispensable  furnishings,  such  as  tables, 
clumsy  benches,  beds,  and  stools.  The  last 
tenant  had  left  behind  some  pans  and  kettles ; 
these,  Sebastian  made  use  of. 

Anita,  like  a  migratory  bird,  thought  only 
of  the  end  of  her  flight,  and  this  change  in  her 
mode  of  life  troubled  her  but  little.  Sebas 
tian  often  came  near  her,  the  consuming  de 
sire  for  intimacy  increasing  until  he  could 
think  of  nothing  else.  He  would  tell  her  of 
wonderful  things  that  he  would  be  able  to  do 
for  her.  He  promised  her  all  things  pleasing 
to  women,  silks,  jewelry,  flowers  and  music. 
His  voice  would  be  full  of  seduction.  He 


168  JUAN  PICO 

spoke  to  her  of  pleasures  they  would  yet 
enjoy,  surpassing  any  she  had  known.  He 
felt  an  animal-like  rage  for  she  did  not  under 
stand,  at  least,  she  did  not  respond  to  him. 
He  took  her  hand  and  gazed  at  her.  But  she 
would  not  look  at  him. 

Anita  avoided  him,  and  more  and  more  felt 
afraid  when  he  looked  at  her.  As  time  went 
on,  she  began  to  think  that  they  might  never 
find  Juan.  She  hid  her  tears,  but  sometimes 
Sebastian  heard  her  sobbing ;  this  irritated  him 
to  tears  also,  but  his,  like  vitriol,  scorched  his 
soul. 

"What  are  her  sufferings  to  mine?"  he 
would  mutter  to  himself.  "  Perhaps,  she  will 
never  love  me,  but  I  will  live  no  longer  with 
out  love.  In  a  few  years  Death  will  claim 
me.  But  until  then,  let  me  make  up  for  all 
the  misfortunes  I  have  suffered." 

He  had  no  future ;  he  did  not  recognize  the 
God  who  made  him ;  but  when  Anita's  eyes 
shone  on  him  a  secret  fear  rebuffed  him  and 
he  dared  not  offer  her  the  profanation  of  his 
unveiled  thoughts.  Never  but  the  once  had 
he  dared  to  kiss  her. 


JUAN  PICO  169 

At  each  fresh  evidence  of  her  indifference, 
his  wrinkles  deepened ;  it  distressed  him  like 
an  old  wound,  that  he  could  not  persuade 
her  to  love  him.  But  be  his  she  should,  if 
not  his  willing,  then  his  unwilling  slave.  She 
should  have  no  past,  and  her  future  should  be 
his. 

By  and  by,  he  began  to  fear  lest  Fate  who 
had  been  so  harsh  to  him  might  snatch  her 
away.  The  thought  grew  upon  him,  stunned 
him,  then  roused  him  to  action.  No,  that 
should  not  be.  He  planned  at  once  to  de 
stroy  for  Anita  her  hope  of  ever  meeting 
Juan.  Devoid  of  pity,  incapable  of  remorse, 
that  very  evening  he  came  to  Anita,  his  eyes 
piercing  through  the  darkness  like  those  of 
a  beast  of  prey,  and  said  with  an  expression 
of  hypocritical  sorrow : 

"Anita,  my  little  love,  Juan  Pico  is  dead." 

Anita  trembled  like  a  young  ash  tree ;  she 
looked  at  him  as  though  she  herself  were  dy 
ing.  The  old  man  was  frightened,  but  he 
continued : 

"  I  am  very  sad,  too,  Anita,  for  I  loved  him. 
it  i§  terrible,  I  hare  just  heaj<i  that 


170  JUAN  PICO 

three  days  ago  he  was  gored  to  death  by  an 
angry  bull.  The  bells  that  rang  yesterday 
were  tolling  for  him." 

Anita  fell  forward  fainting.  Sebastian 
thought  he  had  killed  her.  But  when  she 
recovered  he  did  not  hesitate  to  give  her  a 
detailed  account  of  Juan's  death.  She  lis 
tened,  asking  no  questions ;  but  when  he 
stopped  speaking  she  began  to  pass  through 
her  fingers  the  beads  of  the  rude  black  rosary 
that  had  replaced  the  lost  rosary  of  gold  and 
ivory.  Finally  she  wept  despairingly. 

Next  day  she  begged  to  be  taken  back  to 
the  Senora.  Sebastian  replied  coaxingly  : 

"  Yes,  Anita,  in  a  few  days." 

After  that  as  time  went  on,  she  occasionally 
talked  of  the  Senora  and  of  the  ranch.  Se 
bastian  glad  to  have  her  talk  at  all,  encour 
aged  her.  Often  he  found  her  silently  weep 
ing;  once  he  placed  his  hand  on  her  pretty 
brown  head,  asking : 

"  What  is  it,  Anita,  what  is  it  ?  " 

"  0,  Sebastian,  do  you  think  they  have  for 
gotten  me  on  the  ranch  ?  " 

no,  Anita,  they  have  not  forgotten 


JUAN  PICO  171 

you.  But  do  not  go  back  and  make  them  sad 
with  your  tears." 

"  0,  Sebastian,  I  will  never  let  them  see  me 
weep,"  and  she  pitifully  tried  to  control  her 
tears,  smiling  so  sadly  that  any  heart  but  his 
would  have  been  touched  with  compassion. 

"  I  will  feed  the  peacocks  again  and  gather 
flowers  for  the  Virgin.  It  will  not  be  long 
before  we  start  for  home,  will  it,  Sebastian  ?  " 

"  No,  my  little  Anita,  no." 

"  And  you  think  the  Seiiora  will  forgive  me 
for  going  away  ?  and  that  I  shall  sing  to  her 
again?" 

"Why,  certainly,  my  little  Thrush." 

Anita  longed  for  the  Senora  from  dawn 
until  sunset,  she  dreamed  of  her  at  night. 
She  asked  every  evening : 

"  Do  we  go  to-morrow,  Sebastian  ?  " 

To  which  Sebastian  would  reply:  "Per 
haps,  perhaps,  Anita." 

And  next  day  she  would  smile,  asking : 

"Shall  we  go  to-day?" 

"  Well,  not  to-day.  I  cannot  arrange  for  it 
to-day." 

Sebastian  spent  considerable  time  in  the 


172  JUAN  PICO 

San  Diego  gambling  and  drinking  resorts. 
He  was  coming  out  of  such  a  place  one  after 
noon  when  he  saw  a  repulsive-looking  old 
woman  across  the  street.  Almost  at  the  same 
time  she  saw  him  and  called : 

"  Holla,  Sebastian  Carmelo.     Is  that  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  who  did  you  think  I  was,  Paquita  ? 
Come  with  me.  You've  been  a  long  time  on 
the  way." 

He  led  the  old  woman  down  the  road,  and 
she  began  speaking  in  an  apologizing  tone : 

"  I  started  as  soon  as  you  told  me,  besides 
I've  had  a  hard  time  walking  and  traveling  in 
ox-carts.  Where's  the  girl  ?  " 

"Oh,  she's  safe,  but  she's  fretting  to  go 
home.  You  haven't  come  any  too  soon." 

The  old  hag  looked  at  him  and  grinned  : 

"And  you  need  old  Paquita,  do  you? 
You're  not  so  successful  a  lover  as  you  were 
forty  years  ago." 

"Bah!"  he  said,  "this  girl's  a  saint  yet, 
and  you  know  I  still  think  something  of  the 
saints." 

Sebastian  was  overjoyed  at  the  arrival  of 
the  woman,  and  his  face  took  on  an  added 


JUAN  PICO  173 

look  of  bestial  cunning ;  along  the  way  to  the 
ancient  adobe,  he  talked  to  her  in  confidential 
whispers.  They  arrived  at  the  cottage.  Their 
shadows  fell  at  Anita's  feet  and  she  looked  up 
with  a  sudden,  startled  blanching  of  the  face. 
She  rose  at  once,  and  drew  back.  Sebastian 
said  with  a  chuckling  indescribable  leering 
grimace : 

"  Anita,  Paquita  has  come  to  San  Diego 
and  I  have  asked  her  to  stay  here  until  we  go 
away." 

"  But  are  we  not  going  to-morrow  ?  " 

"Well,  not  quite  to-morrow,  but  we  may 
the  day  after." 

The  old  woman  began  to  make  ready  the 
evening  meal  and  Sebastian  came  up  to  Anita, 
saying  in  a  soft  voice : 

"Paquita  will  keep  you  company  and  I 
shall  not  be  afraid  to  leave  you  alone,  now, 
while  I  am  trying  to  find  a  way  to  go  back  to 
Los  Angeles.  She  will  take  care  of  you  and 
do  everything  for  you." 

"  O,  Sebastian,  take  me  to  the  Senora,  take 
me  to  her."  She  looked  at  him  with  a  dread 
ful  entreaty.  Sebastian's  face  was  flushed  a 


174  JUAN  PICO 

black-red  and  his  hand  was  stretched  out  to 
grasp  her  arm.  Suddenly  he  recoiled  and 
shambled  away,  saying : 

"  I  tell  you  I  cannot  start  to-morrow.  I  am 
not  ready." 

Anita  watched  first  one  and  then  the  other ; 
she  seemed  less  to  fear  them,  than  to  long  to 
be  relieved  of  their  presence.  She  ate  supper. 
When  she  had  finished  eating,  Sebastian  said : 

"  Anita,  get  your  guitar  and  play  for  us." 

Silently,  she  obeyed,  her  liquid  voice  ris 
ing  like  some  pure  fountain.  Sebastian  and 
Paquita  sat  opposite  and  listened  with  a  sort 
of  dull  wonder,  as  uncouth  creatures  might 
listen  to  the  notes  of  a  dying  swan. 

When  the  sun  was  sinking  in  regal  splendor, 
Anita  went  out  under  the  palms  and  remained 
in  the  cool  night  air  until  she  became  quite 
chilled.  Tree  toads  were  calling,  and  far  off 
a  nightingale's  song  throbbed  in  bursts  of 
melodious  melancholy.  At  last  Anita  came 
into  the  house. 

Sebastian  and  Paquita  heard  her  moving 
about  in  her  little  room.  For  a  long  time 
afterward  they  sat  motionless,  occasionally  ex- 


JUAN  PICO  175 

changing  a  muttered  sentence.  When  white- 
winged  sleep  had  brooded  and  had  wrapped  in 
silence  all  sounds  within  and  without  the  hut, 
Sebastian  rose,  put  out  the  feeble  lamp  and 
disappeared. 

Paquita,  doubly  hideous  in  the  moon's  trans 
forming  light,  crept  part  way  after  him  and 
listened.  After  awhile  she  heard  a  faint  cry, 
then  a  startled  scream  and  a  rushing  sound. 
Anita  was  at  her  door,  but  the  hag  was  there 
before  her,  and  held  the  door  closed  to  the 
tender  hands  that  beat  against  it.  Paquita 
nodded,  she  smiled,  she  heard  wild  cries  and 
shrieks : 

"  Paquita,  Paquita,  oh,  help  me  Jesus ! " 
It  was  a  lonely  hut,  there  were  no  passers-by. 


TWELVE 

"  Unruly  blasts  wait  on  tender  spring ; 

Unwholesome  weeds  take  root  with  precious  flowers ; 
The  adder  hisses  where  the  sweet  birds  sing ; 
Where  virtue  breeds,  iniquity  devours." 

— SHAKESPEARE. 

PAQUITA  got  up  early  and  was  making  a 
fire.  Walking  about  in  the  blank  grayness 
she  was  at  first  hardly  to  be  discovered.  But 
as  the  light  increased,  it  gradually  threw  her 
disagreeable  outlines  into  bold  relief.  The 
brightness  of  the  transparent  purity  half 
blinded  her,  and  she  shaded  her  eyes  and 
looked  about  her  with  the  indecision  of  a  bat 
at  noonday.  By  and  by  she  began  to  get 
breakfast.  Bending  over  to  place  a  kettle  of 
water  on  the  fire,  her  mole-like  vision  made 
her  aware  of  a  moving  shadow.  It  was  Anita 
running  down  to  the  road. 

Paquita  dropped  the  kettle  with  a  crash  and 
scurried  in  pursuit,  shrieking : 

"  Here  you,  where  are  you  going  ?  Come 
back,  come  back,  I  say." 

176 


JUAN  PICO  177 

Anita  paid  no  attention,  but  ran  on.  The 
old  creature  was  beside  herself ;  rushing  to 
where  Sebastian  lay  sleeping,  she  shook  him 
violently,  yelling  in  his  ear : 

"  Sebastian  !  Sebastian  !  The  girl's  running 
off.  Wake  up,  you  old  fool."  She  started  out 
and  hobbled  after  Anita;  but  her  yells  had 
awakened  Sebastian,  and  he  soon  caught  up 
with  her  and  passed  her.  When  he  reached 
Anita,  he  clutched  the  poor  trembling  child 
by  the  arm,  saying : 

"  You  didn't  tell  me  you  were  going  away, 
my  little  Thrush.  You  shall  go,  soon,  but 
not  to-day.  Come  on  back  to  the  house,  my 
dear."  He  tried  to  force  her  gently,  but 
tightly  closing  her  lips  she  resisted  with  all 
her  strength.  "  What,  you  won't  come  ?  Oh, 
yes,  you  will,  my  dear.  Now,  don't  be  fool 
ish,  come."  . 

Anita's  breast  rose  and  fell  quickly,  her  face 
was  flaming-red. 

"  No,  I  will  not  go  back  there ! " 

By  this  time,  Paquita  had  overtaken  them. 
Sebastian  looked  once  more  at  the  resolute 
child,  then  said  to  Paquita : 


178  JUAN  PICO 

"  Take  hold  of  her  arm,  we'll  help  her  to  go 
back." 

Together  they  dragged  Anita  toward  the 
hut ;  full  in  their  faces  the  rising  sun  flung  its 
beams  of  sinless  splendor  upon  them  and  upon 
her.  When  they  entered  the  hut,  Anita  was 
very  pale ;  she  shrank  away  from  their  hands 
and  said  nothing.  She  would  not  even  reply 
to  their  questions.  After  a  time  Paquita  had 
prepared  the  breakfast,  but  Anita  wanted 
nothing.  They  forced  her  to  eat.  In  every 
thing  they  endeavored  to  look  after  her  com 
fort  and  to  quiet  her  fears.  She  scarcely  no 
ticed  them ;  she  was  evidently  praying.  When 
Sebastian  had  gone  away  for  a  short  time,  she 
came  to  the  old  woman  and  entreated : 

"  Paquita,  help  me  to  get  away  from  Sebas 
tian.  Please,  Paquita.  I  will  do  anything 
for  you.  I  will  pray  to  the  Holy  Yirgin  for 
you  and  to  all  the  saints.  Oh,  help  me  ! "  she 
wrung  her  hands. 

Cunningly  the  old  woman  looked  at  her, 
then  laid  one  of  her  shrivelled  claws  on  the 
child's  shoulder. 

"Wait,  until  he  is  gone  away  for  a  longer 


JUAN  PICO  179 

time.  I  dare  not  help  you  to-day.  He  would 
kill  me." 

Anita  looked  at  her  beseechingly :  "  Then 
you  will  help  me,  Paquita,  to-morrow  ?  " 

"Yes,  I'll  help  you." 

Anita  grasped  Paquita's  hand,  and  gave  an 
exclamation  of  relief.  The  old  woman  turned 
indifferently  away,  adding : 

"  But  what  do  you  want  to  go  for,  ain't  he 
good  to  you  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Paquita,  Paquita ! "  she  sobbed. 

"  Hush,"  said  the  hag,  "  here  he  is,  he's  come 
back.  I  hear  him  coughing." 

Days  passed.  Wretched  days  and  horrible 
nights.  More  than  once  Anita  tried  to  escape, 
but  the  attempt  was  useless,  for  watchful 
eyes  were  always  upon  her.  Through  it  all 
Paquita  pretended  friendliness  to  Anita,  and 
that  it  was  only  the  fear  of  Sebastian  which 
kept  her  from  assisting  her  to  get  away. 

One  morning  Paquita  told  the  child  that 
Sebastian  would  be  gone  all  day,  and  made 
her  up  a  little  bundle  of  provisions,  even  going 
so  far  as  to  give  her  some  money,  saying  : 

"  Now,  when  I  have  gone  to  sleep,  you  steal 


180  JUAN  PICO 

away."  She  closed  her  eyes  and  pretended  to 
be  oblivious  to  all  around  her.  Anita  started, 
but  she  had  only  gone  a  short  distance  when 
she  came  upon  Sebastian  who  was  waiting 
for  her  behind  a  clump  of  palms.  When  he 
brought  her  back  to  the  hut  he  berated  Pa- 
quita  so  savagely  that  Anita  was  for  the  first 
time  cowed.  She  began  to  feel  that  it  was 
hopeless  to  think  of  escaping,  and  she  fell  into 
a  kind  of  apathy,  only  arousing  from  it  to  tell 
her  beads,  or  when  they  made  her  eat. 

Sebastian  often  sat  and  admired  her.  One 
day  he  broke  the  silence  by  saying : 

"  Anita,  to-morrow  I  will  take  you  out  and 
show  you  some  more  of  San  Diego." 

"  I  do  not  want  to  see  it,"  she  replied  in  a 
low  voice. 

"  But  I  want  you  to,  for  I  want  you  to  be 
happy."  He  came  toward  her.  "  I  love  you, 
Anita,  I  love  you !  Why  do  you  turn  away  ? 
Come,  let  us  be  merry.  Get  your  guitar  and 
sing." 

"  I  cannot  sing — I  cannot  play."  Her  eyes 
filled  with  tears.  For  misery  now  lodged 
where  mirth  had  been. 


JUAN  PICO  181 

Sebastian  did  not  urge  the  matter,  but  left 
her  and  went  out  under  the  palms  to  smoke. 
He  thought  he  saw  in  her  apathy,  resignation. 
And  he  promised  himself  that  she  would  soon 
be  happy  again,  and  with  him. 

Oftener  and  oftener  he  would  sit  beside  her 
and  talk  of  his  love  for  her,  of  her  singing, 
and  of  the  wonderful  things  he  would  soon 
take  her  to  see.  Sometimes  she  would  stare 
at  him,  then  turn  her  head  from  him  and  look 
longingly  up  into  the  sky.  Karely  did  she 
answer  his  questions. 

Though  Anita  was  indifferent  to  Sebastian, 
Paquita  was  not.  And  often  he  would  sit  be 
side  her  on  a  bench  in  the  old  olive  grove 
close  by,  and  talk  to  her  for  hours  in  a  strange 
low  tone.  He  found  it  easy  to  talk  to  Paquita, 
she  understood  him  so  well.  Frequently  she 
would  say  nothing,  but  her  gestures  implied 
more  than  words.  At  times  their  conversation 
was  carried  on  with  much  zeal,  but  never  did 
they  become  so  engrossed  as  to  forget  Anita, 
and  her  possible  attempt  to  escape.  Thus  life 
went  on  in  the  old  adobe. 

All  m  that  parched  country  were  watching 


182  JUAN  PICO 

for  the  rain,  for  the  coming  of  spring.  They 
knew  that  when  the  insupportable  drouth  was 
over,  California  would  be  transformed  into  an 
earthly  Paradise.  Then  the  country  would  be 
full  of  the  laughter  of  girls,  and  the  songs  of 
birds.  Everywhere  would  be  renewed  life. 

In  the  intoxicating  air  of  spring,  doubtless 
Sebastian  would  become  more  ardent,  more 
passionately  venturesome.  Even  now,  he  was 
regarding  Anita  with  a  senile  tenderness,  and 
in  imagination,  was  transforming  himself  into 
a  lover  who  could  kiss  the  lips  of  the  adored 
one  without  hesitation  and  without  reserve. 
He  dreamed  that  in  Anita  he  had  found  the 
fountain  of  youth ;  he  imagined  that  with  this 
fair  creature  near  him,  ever  exhaling  the  fra 
grance  of  her  youth,  he  would  live  the  rest  of 
his  life  in  the  enjoyment  of  renewed  vigor; 
and  that  Anita  should  learn  to  love  him  as  he 
loved  her.  But  such  a  love  as  he  harbored !  a 
weird  passion  that  flames  madly  and  then  con 
sumes  all  that  is  true,  all  that  is  pure.  One 
reason  that  Paquita  understood  Sebastian, 
was,  that  she  had  been  loved  with  a  passion 
like  his  and  afterward  had  been  abandoned. 


JUAN  PICO  183 

Long  since  all  sympathy  for  others,  even  for 
herself,  had  ceased  to  trouble  her.  For  her, 
pity,  compassion,  love  did  not  exist.  Malice 
and  hatred  were  as  much  a  part  of  herself  and 
as  apparent,  as  are  the  quills  upon  a  porcupine. 
Sebastian  had  known  her  for  many  years ;  and 
when  she  was  younger  he  had  indulged  a 
fleeting  passion  for  her.  Though  she  had 
never  been  beautiful  she  had  formerly  exerted 
a  strange  fascination.  Men  had  admired  her, 
and  some  had  grown  to  fear  her.  Women 
loathed  her.  She  had  no  friends.  She  had 
outlived  lovers.  How  she  existed  no  one 
knew.  She  was  a  fungus  transplanted  out  of 
Hades.  Such  growths  suck  sustenance  from 
poisons. 

The  drouth  increased  in  severity,  lengthen 
ing  the  period  of  stupidity  and  laziness.  That 
time  that  came  between  when  every  one  was 
waiting  for  the  rain.  Evening  after  evening 
the  red  sun  declined  into  the  western  waters 
and  shone  on  all  the  sombre  mountains,  on 
San  Miguel,  Jamul  and  El  Cajon  that  stood 
nearest.  Clouds  occasionally  gathered  below 
their  shining  snow-shrouded  peaks ;  this  prog- 


184  JUAN  PICO 

nosticated  rain.  It  had  seemed  as  if  it  might 
never  rain  again,  and  the  sight  of  these  an 
choring  clouds  would  fill  the  hearts  of  every 
one  with  joy.  Alas !  they  gathered  only  to 
disappear,  like  ships  that  slip  their  anchors 
without  unloading.  The  mountain-sides  were 
covered  with  rusty  ferns  and  bright  yellow 
poppies,  and  as  the  sun  struck  them  there  was 
a  scattered  magnificence  of  color  radiating 
with  gold  and  copper.  February  was  drawing 
to  a  close,  the  new  year  was  well  on  its  way. 

The  ranchmen  spent  their  time  gathering 
kelp  on  the  seashore  or  dried  ferns  on  the 
slopes.  These  they  loaded  on  heavy  carts, 
with  wheels  like  solid  disks.  Then  the  loads 
were  strewn  over  the  earth  to  make  it  more 
productive.  Close  beside  their  oxen  the  ranch 
men  walked  with  an  easy,  nonchalant  grace. 
Their  faces  and  their  bare  necks  were  as  red 
as  the  ferns.  Hanging  on  the  backs  of  their 
heads  were  their  big  sombreros. 

"  If  it  would  only  rain ! "  they  exclaimed. 

The  priests  had  offered  up  prayers  for  it, 
but  still  the  earth  was  baked  like  stone.  In 
the  country  everything  was  fairly  eaten  up  by 


JUAN  PICO  185 

the  yellow  powdered  dust.  As  the  days  went 
by  they  looked  anxiously  at  the  clouds  that 
should  drop  lower  and  lower ;  they  were  wait 
ing  until  the  glorious  rain,  like  a  blessing 
should  sweep  across  the  country  and  drench 
it.  Then  the  saps  would  spring  into  new  life, 
and  the  pleasant  movement  of  rapidly  growing 
leaves  and  buds  would  begin  wherever  there 
was  foothold  for  a  plant.  Then  as  the  even 
ing  came  on,  moist  vapors  would  gather  and 
linger  among  the  branches  of  the  trees  until 
dawn,  when  they  would  vanish  like  small 
clouds  with  linings  of  mother-of-pearl.  Then 
the  evenings  would  be  heavy  with  the  odors 
of  magnolias  and  of  orange  blossoms.  In  such 
a  time  the  whole  calm  region  would  repose  in 
a  twilight  of  overhanging  rose-tinted  clouds. 

And  the  adobe  hut  stood  on  the  parched 
ground,  as  if  it,  too,  waited  for  the  rain ; 
when  it  would  lie  mysteriously  enmeshed  in 
the  encircling  Eden. 


THIRTEEN 

"  We  are  spirits  clad  in  veils ; 

Man  by  man  was  never  seen ; 
All  our  deep  communing  fails 
To  remove  the  shadowy  screen." 

— CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH. 

ALWAYS  tenderly  cared  for  and  protected, 
it  took  Anita  some  time  to  realize  Paquita's 
wickedness.  When  she  learned  to  know  Pa- 
quita  she  became  hopeless.  Descended  from 
a  long  line  of  Mexicans  whose  every  instinct 
had  been  developed  in  wickedness  and  vice, 
Paquita  was  bound  by  the  irons  of  custom,  as 
a  slave  is  riveted  to  his  chains.  She  had 
grown  old,  but  without  feelings  of  regret,  for 
she  had  no  aspirations  to  be  other  than  she 
was.  Without  resistance  she  had  abandoned 
herself  to  the  corrosions  of  her  fatal  life.  If 
ever  a  glorious  veil  of  illusions  had  hung  be 
fore  her  eyes,  it  had  not  been  torn  away,  but 
had  mouldered  to  pieces  before  them.  Now 
she  was  silent,  morose  and  desolate  with  noth- 
186 


JUAN  PICO  187 

ing  certain  before  her  but  death.  Hatred  pre 
dominated  every  feeling  within  her. 

She  trusted  no  one,  Sebastian  trusted  no 
one,  and  when  their  eyes  met  they  smiled ; 
but  though  they  smiled,  they  saw  in  each 
other  something  to  be  afraid  of.  Often  they 
talked  together  in  whispers,  or  slunk  away, 
treading  lightly  as  monks  in  sandals ;  Anita 
only  felt  the  sunshine  brighten  when  they  dis 
appeared. 

Paquita  occasionally  tried  to  amuse  Anita 
by  reciting  Indian  or  Mexican  superstitions, 
or  at  other  times,  relating  an  episode  out  of  her 
own  history.  Anita  seldom  appeared  to  listen, 
but  once  after  Paquita  had  been  telling  her  of 
her  little  sister  and  of  her  mother,  Anita  sud 
denly  asked: 

"  If  I  go  back  to  the  Seiiora,  do  you  think 
she  will  forgive  me  ?  " 

Paquita  stared  at  her  and  dropped  the  piece 
of  old  lace  she  was  mending. 

"Forgive  you?"  she  asked  shrilly,  "the 
high  born  Seiiora  ?  ha,  ha ! " 

"  But  I  would  never  go  away  again." 

"  You'd  have  to.    The  Senora  would  never 


188  JUAN  PICO 

take  you  in.  Do  you  think  she  would  have 
you  in  the  house  again  ?  Of  course  not.  Be 
sides  you're  Sebastian's  girl  now." 

"I  do  not  belong  to  Sebastian."  Anita's 
tear-marked  cheeks  flamed,  and  the  dark  vio 
let  shadows  about  her  sad  eyes  grew  deeper. 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  do.  You  know  that  as  well 
as  I  do.  You're  not  fit  to  talk  to  such  women 
as  the  Seiiora  any  more." 

Anita  uttered  a  little  scream :  "  Stop,  Pa- 
quita ! " 

This  exasperated  Paquita  ;  she  went  on  : 

"  Oh,  you  are  an  innocent,  ain't  you  ?  Well, 
let  me  tell  you  she  wouldn't  wipe  her  shoes  on 
you,  now.  And  some  day  you'll  be  no  better 
to  look  at  than  I  am.  So  you  might  as  well 
have  a  good  time.  I  have.  I  haven't  missed 
much.  And  that's  the  truth." 

Anita  gazed  at  her  unable  to  speak. 

Paquita  went  on  remorselessly : 

"You  are  an  ungrateful  girl,  that's  what 
you  are.  Sebastian  is  very  good  to  you,  but 
you  don't  know  when  you're  well  off.  You 
have  plenty  to  eat  and  nothing  to  do,  what 
more  do  you  want  ?  If  you  mind  him  and  do 


JUAN  PICO  189 

what  he  tells  you,  it  won't  be  long  before 
we'll  all  be  rich."  And  Paquita  jabbered  on, 
Anita  too  horrified  to  reply. 

After  awhile  Paquita  missed  the  child,  and 
found  her  hidden  behind  the  thick  trunk  of 
one  of  the  date  palms  in  an  agony  of  prayer. 

From  this  time  Anita  began  fully  to  realize 
that  she  suffered.  Now  Sebastian  often  per 
emptorily  insisted  that  she  should  play  and 
sing  for  him,  and  after  a  struggle  she  yielded. 
At  first  the  tears  ran  down  her  cheeks  and  the 
music  caused  her  bitter  anguish;  but  finally 
when  she  was  ordered  to  sing  or  play  she 
would  apparently  fall  into  a  half-conscious 
state  paying  attention  to  nothing  but  the 
music. 

Little  by  little,  Sebastian  began  to  tell  her 
of  the  life  he  had  planned  for  her. 

"  Anita,"  he  would  say,  "  you  will  become  a 
great  singer ;  then  you  shall  see  all  the  wonder 
ful  and  beautiful  things  there  are  in  the  world. 
What  you  have  seen  is  nothing  to  what  is  be 
fore  you.  You  might  as  well  have  died  as  to 
have  gone  on  living  as  you  did  at  the  ranch. 
Don't  say  you  don't  want  to  go  with  me,  for 


190  JUAN  PICO 

if  a  girl  is  beautiful  she  should  let  others  have 
the  pleasure  of  admiring  her.  If  she  has  a 
grand  voice  she  should  not  hide  it  away  from 
those  who  would  gladly  pay  to  hear  it.  All 
that  we  have  we  should  give  to  the  world.  If 
we  do,  the  world  will  repay  us  liberally  for 
all  we  give.  What  seems  wrong  is  sometimes 
right,  what  seems  right  is  often  wrong.  It  is 
foolish  to  say  otherwise.  Those  who  are  older, 
can  tell  you  that.  Our  own  inclinations  and 
desires  are  often  all  wrong,  and  by  and  by, 
Anita,  you  will  see  that  I  am  telling  the  truth 
and  that  I  love  you.  When  that  time  comes, 
you  will  be  glad  to  do  everything  I  tell  you." 
If  Anita  looked  at  him  his  voice  would 
tremble,  and  often  he  would  stop.  At  such 
times  Paquita  would  laugh  disagreeably  at 
his  discomforture.  This  always  made  him 
angry,  but  in  a  few  moments  he  would  again 
commence  to  talk  of  his  golden  dreams,  and 
time  and  again  he  poured  the  same  story  into 
Anita's  ears,  until  the  sound  of  his  voice  be 
came  almost  unbearable  and  she  would  have 
been  glad  to  have  been  deaf.  He  would  say 
with  a  maudlin,  simpering  smile : 


JUAN  PICO  191 

"You  do  not  know  how  rich,  how  famous 
you  will  be,  my  beautiful  Anita,  my  song 
bird.  Some  day  you  will  sing  and  the  whole 
world  will  listen.  You  will  make  every  one 
who  hears  you  happy.  And  I — I  will  always 
care  for  you  and  always  love  you." 

In  reply,  Anita  would  silently  shake  her 
head. 

One  day  when  the  drouth  was  partly  re 
lieved  by  clouds  that  rose  from  the  ocean 
without,  however,  yielding  up  their  rain  until 
they  were  driven  upon  the  peaks  of  the  Sierra 
Madre,  Sebastian  and  Paquita,  after  talking  a 
long  time  together,  came  to  Anita  who  was 
outside  on  one  of  the  benches  in  the  grove, 
and  Paquita  said : 

"Anita,  Sebastian  has  lost  all  his  money  and 
we've  got  to  have  some,  for  there's  nothing  in 
the  house  to  eat.  He  wants  you  to  go  with 
him  and  sing  in  the  street." 

"  No,"  said  Anita,  firmly,  " I  will  not  go." 

"Well,  then,"  replied  Sebastian,  impatiently, 
"  we  shall  all  starve.  But  if  you'd  rather  do 
that,  than  sing,  all  right.  I  will  not  urge 
you." 


192  JUAN  PICO 

For  two  days  Anita  had  nothing  to  eat. 
Paquita  and  Sebastian  apparently  ate  nothing. 
During  this  time  Sebastian  droned  over  and 
over  again  to  Anita,  how  wicked  she  was  in 
refusing  to  use  the  gift  God  had  bestowed 
upon  her,  and  then  would  add : 

"  Very  well,  if  you  refuse  to  help  me  earn 
money,  you  will  be  to  blame  for  your  own 
death,  to  say  nothing  of  Paquita's  and  mine. 
I  am  afraid  to  think  where  your  soul  will  go 
if  you  commit  murder." 

Eventually,  weak  from  fasting  she  yielded 
and  relapsed  into  the  habit  of  obedience  that 
had  been  so  well  taught  her  by  the  Senora, 
and  went  with  Sebastian  into  the  little  town 
of  San  Diego.  Here  she  played  and  sang 
with  such  a  pathetic  quality  in  the  slender 
flute-like  voice,  that  the  crowd  which  gathered 
about  them  were  wonderfully  moved;  and 
when  Sebastian  asked  alms  for  his  daughter 
and  himself,  saying :  "  We  are  so  poor,  sefiors," 
the  rude  ranchmen  were  very  generous  to  him. 
A  saloon-keeper  standing  to  one  side,  spoke 
up: 

"  Why  didn't  you  tell  me  that  your  daugh- 


JUAN  PICO  193 

ter  sang  ?  If  you  want  to,  I'll  make  a  bargain 
with  you  to  have  her  sing  in  my  place  every 
day." 

"Well,"  replied  Sebastian,  hesitatingly, 
"  we're  going  up  to  San  Francisco  before  long. 
Perhaps  you  wouldn't  want  her  to  sing  for 
only  a  few  days."  He  rubbed  his  hands  to 
gether  slowly. 

"  Yes,  I  would ;  bring  her  along,  bring  her 
down  to-morrow.  I'll  pay  you  and  let  the 
girl  pass  around  the  hat  for  herself,  besides." 

Sebastian's  face  wore  a  pleased  smile : 
"  What  will  you  give  me  ?  " 

After  a  little  haggling  they  agreed  upon  a 
price.  The  saloon-keeper  held  out  his  hand : 

"  It's  a  bargain,  then  ?  " 

"It's  a  bargain,"  replied  Sebastian,  taking 
the  proffered  hand ;  "  I'll  fetch  her  down  to 
morrow.  A'Dios."  And  he  hurried  on  to 
overtake  Anita. 

Sebastian  and  the  saloon-keeper  had  carried 
on  their  conversation  partly  in  an  aside,  and 
Anita  who  had  been  looking  up  toward  the 
great  conical  peak  of  San  Miguel,  and  paying 
no  attention  to  the  dispersing  crowd,  was  sud- 


194  JUAN  PICO 

denly  attracted  to  the  small  church  near-by 
and  started  toward  it.  She  was  in  the  shadow 
of  the  building  when  Sebastian  caught  her  by 
the  arm. 

"  Come,"  he  asked  roughly,  "  where  are  you 
going?" 

"  I'm  going  into  the  church." 

"  Going  into  the  church,  what  for  ?  " 

"  To  confess." 

"  To  confess  ?  ha,  ha !  Gome  along  with 
me.  What  would  the  Holy  Father  think  of 
your  confession  ?  He  wouldn't  listen  to  it. 
If  he  did,  he  would  tell  you,  what  I  tell  you, 
that  you  should  love  those  who  are  taking 
care  of  you,  and  try  to  please  them.  The 
priests  don't  expect  people  like  us  to  make 
confessions.  Come,  don't  sit  down  here." 

Despite  Sebastian's  command,  Anita  sank 
down  on  the  wide  steps.  He  continued  to 
talk.  And  after  waiting  a  few  moments  he 
compelled  her  to  rise,  and  in  the  golden  haze 
they  went  slowly  down  the  irregular  street. 

Just  entering  the  town,  and  coming  toward 
them  in  a  rude  cart,  was  a  Mexican  family. 
The  mother  looked  closely  at  Sebastian  and 


JUAN  PICO  195 

at  Anita,  then  exclaimed  to  the  boy  beside 
her: 

"  Look,  Carlos !  the  old  man  and  the  Se- 
norita  that  sang  to  you  on  the  boat." 

At  first  the  boy  eagerly  followed  her  point 
ing  finger,  then  he  looked  disappointed.  As 
long  as  he  could,  he  studied  Anita's  face ;  when 
she  had  passed  he  turned  toward  his  mother. 
She  looked  down  and  asked  smilingly : 

"  Did  you  see  the  Senorita,  Carlos  ?  Would 
you  like  to  hear  her  sing  again  ?  " 

The  child  said  nothing,  but  solemnly  shook 
his  head. 


FOUKTEEN 

"  The  sea's  eye  had  a  mist  on  it, 
And  the  leaves  fell  from  the  day." 

—FRANCES  THOMPSON. 

UPON  the  voyage  to  San  Francisco  the  old 
couple  completely  devoted  themselves  to  the 
young  girl.  Paquita  waited  on  her,  Sebastian 
sat  beside  her,  always  talking,  praising  her  and 
continuing  to  promise  her  all  things  that 
money  could  buy. 

He  would  run  his  fingers  through  his  thin 
white  hair  and  gaze  into  the  future  with  the 
wild  imaginary  eyes  of  an  astrologer.  Anita 
should  bring  him  an  immense  fortune ;  already 
he  felt  it  in  his  grasp.  When  she  appeared  in 
San  Francisco,  she  would  shine  in  her  inno 
cence  and  beauty  like  the  flowers  of  the  field 
at  a  banquet.  In  the  excitement  of  the  new 
life  she  would  soon  be  gay  again ;  she  would 
not  always  remember  Juan.  She  would  learn 
to  love  applause,  and  to  wish  for  all  the 
luxuries  of  life ;  then  she  would  be  glad  to  ap- 
196 


JUAN  PICO  197 

pear  before  the  cynical  eyes  of  all  great  cities. 
How  she  could  sing !  What  a  dancer  she  was ! 
In  his  thrifty  imagination  he  pictured  himself 
as  returning  each  night  from  the  theatre,  his 
pockets  bursting  with  gold.  Borne  along  on 
the  rushing  river  of  fame,  Anita  should  forget 
her  past  life.  She  should  be  the  song  bird  of 
the  world,  and  he  alone  should  know  her  name, 
and  he  alone  would  be  always  with  her.  He 
would  keep  her  in  a  golden  cage  and  would 
make  her  enamored  of  her  cage. 

Thus  in  his  last  days  he  saw  before  him  this 
picture  of  a  life  of  ease,  as  a  glorious  mirage 
framed  magnificently  in  gold.  His  anticipa 
tions  filled  him  with  so  great  a  satisfaction 
that  his  triumphant  sense  of  a  glutted  revenge 
upon  Senora  Gintaris  was  at  times  forgotten. 

They  arrived  in  San  Francisco.  Anita  was 
not  very  well,  so  for  a  time  Sebastian  delayed 
the  matter  of  securing  an  engagement.  But 
he  did  not  forget  daily  to  drop  seeds  of 
thought  in  the  fresh  soil  of  her  mind.  He  was 
confident  that  they  would  soon  spring  into  life 
and  bear  fruits  of  many  kinds.  By  and  by, 
Anita  would  understand  him  fully,  thank  him 


198  JUAN  PICO 

for  his  tender  care  and  love  him,  as  he  longed 
to  be  loved.  His  opal-like  eyes  moved  rest 
lessly  in  their  sockets  and  his  blood  tingled. 

Each  day  Anita  was  brought  into  a  closer 
acquaintanceship  with  the  natures  of  her  two 
companions.  With  a  shrinking  fascination  she 
looked  into  their  cruel,  sensual  faces.  Through 
them,  she  understood  for  the  first  time  in  her 
life  the  meaning  of  vice  and  wickedness.  They 
laid  their  thoughts  and  lives  shamelessly  open 
to  her,  and  the  previous  teachings  that  she  had 
received  caused  her  to  revolt  with  loathing 
against  them,  and  against  the  life  she  was 
leading.  She  leaped  quickly  from  childhood 
to  womanhood,  not  through  years  but  through 
afflictions. 

The  thought  that  they  were  trying  to  make 
her  like  themselves,  and  that  in  time  she  might 
grow  willing  to  be  like  them,  filled  her  with 
unspeakable  horror.  But  in  spite  of  herself, 
she  began  to  grow  accustomed  to  their  natures. 
Forced  to  live  with  them  she  was  obliged  to 
yield  to  their  peculiarities.  Though  at  first, 
she  had  listened  to  their  ambiguous  words 
shudderingly,  now,  when  they  attributed  evil 


JUAN  PICO  199 

to  persons  whom  she  had  been  taught  to  re 
gard  as  saints,  and  when  they  inferred  that 
bad  motives  lay  at  the  root  of  all  good  deeds, 
she  heard  these  things  from  their  lips  as  a 
matter  of  course.  They  even  spoke  against 
the  goodness  of  Juan  and  the  Senora.  This 
was  more  than  she  could  bear,  and  a  flame  of 
deepest  resentment  would  rise  up,  to  be  fol 
lowed  by  poignant  grief.  Gradually,  their 
malicious  suppositions  affected  her  less.  No 
longer  joyful,  and  afraid  to  hope,  good  people, 
good  deeds,  life  itself  became  indifferent  to 
her.  But  to  know  that  evil  natures  such  as 
stirred  within  Sebastian  and  Paquita,  existed, 
never  ceased  to  stun  and  to  overwhelm  her. 
With  terror  she  realized  that  a  great  shadow 
was  shrouding  her  future  in  darkness,  and 
carrying  her  rapidly  away  from  days  of  hap 
piness. 

Sebastian's  slothful  habits  were  now  undis 
guised.  If  possible  his  laziness  increased.  In 
a  thousand  ways ,  he  manifested  that  idleness 
was  a  bliss  of  the  first  magnitude  to  him. 
Hardly  second  to  this,  was  the  satisfaction 
that  he  derived  from  his  authority  over  Anita, 


200  JUAN  PICO 

The  pet  of  the  haughty  Seiiora  was  now  in  his 
power.  Never  for  an  instant  did  he  falter  in 
his  purpose  to  utterly  contaminate  her  na 
ture. 

Sometimes  Sebastian  would  take  Anita  off 
into  the  country.  He  would  choose  days  of 
golden  unshadowed  sunshine,  or  days  when 
there  were  only  the  shadows  of  clouds  on  dis 
tant  hills.  Lying  on  the  warm  earth  in  the 
sun,  often  for  hours  he  neither  talked  nor 
cared  to  listen.  He  liked  the  simple  savagery 
of  hours  of  utter  idleness.  Occasionally  he 
would  make  Anita  sing  to  him.  And  her 
haunting  voice  was  never  more  sweet  than  at 
such  times.  He  would  look  at  her  through 
half-closed  eyes,  and  think  how  supremely 
ideal  she  was  and  that  she  belonged  to  him. 
How  fast  she  was  conforming  to  his  designs. 
Yes,  she  would  soon  be  his,  completely. 

Anita  retired  into  her  own  soul.  She  could 
not  believe  Sebastian,  she  could  not  believe 
Paquita ;  she  only  knew  that  she  was  walled  in, 
inexorably  bound  with  grave  clothes.  Juan 
was  dead.  The  Seiiora  would  never  forgive 
her.  She  went  where  she  was  bid ;  she  played, 


JUAN  PICO  201 

she  sang,  she  danced.  Daily  she  grew  more 
accustomed  to  Sebastian's  authority. 

She  began  to  appear  in  the  saloons  of  San 
Francisco,  always  with  great  success.  This 
gratified  Sebastian,  and  brought  his  vision 
of  showers  of  gold  still  nearer.  When  she 
gained  more  confidence  he  would  strive  for 
her  appearance  on  the  stage.  She  was  young ; 
the  present  experience  was  good  for  her,  and 
he  could  afford  to  wait.  He  must  remember, 
too,  that  she  was  not  strong.  But  it  began  to 
be  a  grievance  to  him  that  she  did  not  regain 
her  strength. 

For  some  days  in  the  late  summer,  Anita 
had  been  more  than  usually  depressed.  This 
worried  Sebastian  and  he  determined  to  give 
her  the  benefit  of  a  day  by  the  sea.  The  salt 
air  always  revived  her,  and  as  they  were  mak 
ing  money  now,  he  felt  extremely  generous. 
So  early  one  morning  they  started  out  on  an 
all  day's  excursion. 

As  Anita  looked  upon  the  fading  glories  of 
the  summer  fields,  there  came  over  her  a  feel 
ing  of  utter  desolation  and  loneliness.  She 
the  Michaelmas  daisies  were  in  bloom, 


202  JUAN  PICO 

but  she  no  longer  looked  eagerly  for  the  fox 
glove  flowers  that  shoot  up  their  long  pink 
rockets  above  the  infinite  lace  work  of  the 
rusty  ferns.  In  the  dried-up  water  courses 
gaudy  purple  and  yellow  blossoms  flaunted 
themselves  in  her  eyes,  but  she  did  not  heed 
them,  and  she  listened  without  interest  to  the 
chorus  of  invisible  insect  life.  They  passed 
by  a  house  from  which  came  music  and  laugh 
ter.  She  looked  up  at  it  wondering  if  every 
one  was  happy  and  she  alone  of  all  the  world, 
homesick  and  miserable.  Near  by  a  melodi 
ous  finch  poured  out  its  soul  in  rapturous 
music.  In  the  azure  sky  she  saw  an  eagle 
poised  upon  outstretched  wings.  She  watched 
his  circling  flight  until  he  hovered  a  tiny  speck 
in  the  great  vault  of  electric  blue.  She  saw 
him  swoop  down  to  strike  his  quarry,  then 
rise  again  and  wing  his  way  inland  toward 
some  mountain  peak. 

Finally  they  came  to  the  beach ;  Sebastian 
hoped  to  see  her  dance  along  beside  the  waves 
as  she  had  on  the  day  when  he  had  first 
brought  her  down  to  the  ocean.  But  she 
only  gazed  sadly  at  the  rolling,  sparkling 


JUAN  PICO  203 

water.    He  sat  down  on  a  rock  and  allowed 
her  to  wander  away  from  him. 

The  sky,  the  birds,  the  flowers  were  sym 
bols,  waking  in  her  memories  of  Otero  ranch. 
She  had  begun  to  live  two  lives,  and  these 
recollections  constituted  the  life  of  her  soul. 
Again  she  lived  through  the  long  afternoons ; 
there  were  the  old  women  nodding  half  asleep 
in  their  easy  chairs  on  the  shady  side  of  the 
house.  Before  them  bloomed  the  azaleas  and 
the  passionless  white  camellias.  Who  gathered 
them  now  for  the  Virgin  and  for  the  good 
nuns?  She  heard  the  Angelus,  she  saw  the 
sudden  glimmer  of  twilight,  and  the  hands 
gathering  about  the  steps  of  the  long  veranda, 
smoking  their  cigarettes  and  exchanging  bits 
of  idle  harmless  gossip.  Above  the  waves  of 
suffering  which  rolled  over  her,  was  one  terri 
ble  thought  which  flung  itself  uppermost  like 
the  mast  of  a  sunken  ship:  "I  shall  never 
see  Juan  again  or  madre  mi."  A  tight  cord 
seemed  bound  about  her  head  and  the  glow  of 
fever  was  on  her  face.  Tears  swelled  to  her 
eyes,  but  she  forced  them  back  upon  her  heart. 
She  prayed ;  "  Do  not  let  me  forget  them," 


204  JUAN  PICO 

Recollection  after  recollection  filled  her 
mind.  Love,  purity  and  happiness  mingled 
together  for  a  moment ;  but  the  pictures  were 
no  sooner  formed  than  despair  heightened 
their  dissolving  glories. 

Two  certainties  ate  into  her  heart;  her 
own  sorrow,  and  the  unforgiveness  of  madre 
mi.  In  her  day-dreams  Anita  still  called 
her  madre  mi.  Secretly  she  prayed  that  she 
might  never  see  her  again,  and  secretly,  too, 
she  prayed  that  she  might  sometime  see  her 
forgiving  face. 

When  the  sun  sank  magnificently  to  rest,  as 
a  dying  Sultan  might,  Sebastian  and  Anita 
returned  to  the  city.  Long  after  they  left 
the  sea,  the  cries  of  the  gulls,  to  which  she 
had  listened  so  apathetically,  rang  in  Anita's 
ears,  touching  keys  in  her  memory,  and  mak 
ing  harmonies,  which  time  nor  life  nor  death 
could  ever  obliterate. 

Though  Anita  continued  to  sing  and  to 
dance,  as  day  followed  day,  Sebastian  noticed 
with  alarm  that  she  grew  more  pale  and  less 
able  to  endure  fatigue.  He  took  her  to  a 
physician  who  prescribed  a  sea  voyage,  and 


JUAN  PICO  205 

advised  that  Anita  should  spend  the  next  few 
months  further  south  where  the  trade  winds 
were  less  severe.  He  suggested  Los  Angeles. 

Sebastian  was  angry,  he  was  opposed  to 
leaving  San  Francisco  at  all.  Anita  was 
popular  in  the  saloons.  They  were  making 
money.  Then  he  wanted  to  stay  away  from 
Los  Angeles.  But  if  she  got  worse,  she  might 
die.  He  thought  the  matter  over  and  decided 
to  run  the  risk.  Juan  had,  without  doubt, 
long  since  gone  inland  to  some  ranch.  In  all 
probability  the  Senora  had  given  up  the  ef 
fort  she  might  have  put  forth  to  find  Anita. 
Besides  Los  Angeles  would  be  as  good  a  place 
in  which  to  pick  up  a  little  money  as  any 
town  along  the  coast.  Anita  should  sing  and 
dance  often  enough  to  keep  them  comfortable, 
and  the  remainder  of  the  time  she  should  do 
nothing  but  rest  and  get  well ;  after  that  she 
would  be  able  to  earn  more  money  than  be 
fore.  So  Sebastian  took  passage  for  the  three 
in  a  sailing  vessel  bound  for  southern  ports. 

When  they  arrived  in  Los  Angeles,  Sebas 
tian  began  and  kept  up  an  industrious  search 
until  he  found  a  deserted  adobe  similar  to  the 


206  JUAN  PICO 

one  he  had  hired  in  San  Diego.  There  they 
settled  themselves.  The  long  road  so  seldom 
used  by  travelers,  passed  in  front  of  the 
house ;  then  twisted  its  way  through  the  calm 
valley  and  off  over  the  hills  near  the  moun 
tains. 

It  was  the  continuation  of  the  old  San  Fer 
nando  road,  and  joined,  like  a  link  in  a  chain, 
the  mountains  and  the  sea.  Over  its  sinuous 
course  the  royal  troops  of  Spain  once  marched 
and  countermarched  to  the  call  of  bugles,  si 
lenced  now  some  two  hundred  years.  It  is 
the  road  of  greatness  and  of  disappointment. 
Like  the  uncertain  fortunes  of  many  who  have 
trodden  it,  it  is  the  road  of  poverty  and  of 
wealth.  At  one  point  no  great  distance  from 
the  adobe,  one  can  see  the  wide  circle  of  blue 
waters  stretching  far  off  to  the  horizon  where 
the  clustering  little  islands  rest,  and  that  seem 
to  mark  the  limit  of  the  world.  Near  the 
mountains  the  sweeping  landscape  widens,  and 
the  country,  rich  in  the  foliage  of  grapes,  is 
dotted  here  and  there  with  fallow  fields  and 
with  the  red  tiled  roofs  of  white  adobe  houses. 
From  its  greatest  height,  the  road  rushes  with 


JUAN  PICO  207 

hurried  descent  into  the  valley  beyond,  as  if 
longing  for  the  solitude  of  the  canons.  Then 
it  winds  in  and  out  among  the  well-worked 
ranches  as  if  happy  in  its  usefulness.  Along 
its  sides  the  old  fences  have  fallen  to  decay 
and  the  rocks  are  covered  with  thick  cushions 
of  moss.  Treading  along  over  its  surface  gen 
erations  have  come  and  gone.  And  on  the 
first  fair  road  of  California  universal  life  has 
left  its  trace,  marking  how  great  is  the  bond 
of  good  fellowship  'twixt  nature  and  mankind. 
Surrounding  the  adobe  was  an  overgrown 
garden.  In  days  gone  by  it  had  been  the 
heart's  delight  of  some  poor  Mexican.  For 
still  in  wild  profusion  grew  French  pink  lilacs ; 
planted  at  regular  intervals  were  aromatic 
herbs ;  and  strangely  out  of  place  transplanted 
from  its  home  in  the  Orient,  stood  a  dwarf 
double-flowering  cherry  tree.  These  little 
trees,  rarely  found  in  California,  are  always 
regarded  with  religious  superstition,  and  are 
spoken  of  in  many  tales  of  romance.  Paquita 
would  often  tell  Anita  how  the  sailors  pledged 
their  troth  with  them,  and  then  sailed  away, 
sometimes  never  to  return.  When  she  found 


208  JUAN  PICO 

a  yellow  rose  of  Texas  with  a  white  and  red 
slip  grafted  to  it,  Paquita  smiled  wolfishly,  for 
she  remembered  how  in  those  old  gardens 
lovers  planted  them  as  witnesses  to  their  truth 
and  loyalty.  She  pulled  the  plant  up  by  the 
roots  and  threw  it  away. 

Paquita  liked  the  gaudy  flowers  of  the 
south,  and  spent  a  good  deal  of  time  in  the 
garden.  Too  indolent  to  train  the  plants  or 
to  water  them,  she  would  go  out  and  walk 
around,  and  walk  over  them,  the  more  pleased 
if  her  heavy  tread  bruised  them  into  emitting 
a  strong  perfume.  Once  she  tried  to  straighten 
a  vine  that  trailed  along  on  a  part  of  the 
wall ;  she  wanted  to  twist  it  over  the  top,  but 
it  was  a  wisteria  whose  original  stem  was  like 
the  trunk  of  a  tree,  and  after  one  or  two  feeble 
efforts  she  gave  up  the  attempt.  But  she 
spent  some  time  training  the  little  stems 
around  the  far-reaching  branches. 

If  Paquita  was  not  in  the  garden,  Anita 
would  go  out  and  lie  in  a  hammock  slung  be 
tween  two  trees.  There  she  would  stay  for 
hours  scarcely  moving;  she  would  look  list 
lessly  at  the  clouds,  or  listen  with  closed  eyes 


JUAN  PICO  209 

to  the  chirping  of  the  birds.  Sometimes  she 
lay  so  motionless  that  Paquita  would  look  at 
her,  as  a  vulture  might,  for  a  sign  of  life.  Once 
she  gathered  some  flowering  cherry  stems  and 
bound  them  together  with  a  cord  of  myrtle. 
Then  she  brought  them  to  Anita,  saying : 

"There's  some  flowers  for  you.  That 
myrtle  means  hope.  If  you  fasten  it  on  your 
dress,  it  may  bring  you  luck." 

Anita  thanked  her,  without  looking  up. 
She  could  not  bear  to  see  the  ulcer  in  the  cor 
ner  of  her  mouth.  And  she  tried  to  avoid 
touching  her  hands,  for  they  were  hard  and 
dry,  and  about  her  fingers  were  usually  small 
particles  of  earth  and  stains  from  the  herbs. 
As  Paquita  went  into  the  house,  Anita  won 
dered  what  she  had  been  like  as  a  girl.  She 
might  have  asked  Sebastian.  But  Anita  asked 
no  questions.  In  the  old  days  the  Senora  had 
not  allowed  her  to,  and  here  there  was  noth 
ing  left  for  her  but  obedience  and  silence. 
The  Senora  used  to  say : 

"  What  is  best  for  you  to  know  will  be  told 
to  you ;  leave  the  rest  to  me." 

If  the  rest  had  only  been  told  to  her,  at 


210  JUAN  PICO 

least  if  she  had  been  taught  to  know  the  ap 
pearance  of  evil. 

Whenever  she  was  able  Sebastian  would 
take  her  to  the  saloons  to  sing  and  dance.  Of 
late  as  she  grew  no  better  he  showed  impa 
tience  over  her  continued  indisposition.  There 
was  no  sense  in  her  being  sick.  And  he  began 
to  think  that  she  was  lazy.  He  determined 
to  rouse  her.  Many  times  when  the  child 
could  scarcely  drag  one  foot  after  the  other, 
he  would  force  her  to  accompany  him.  If  she 
stumbled  or  fell,  it  would  throw  him  into  a 
towering  rage,  and  he  would  take  hold  of  her 
arm  with  such  a  fierce  grip  that  Anita  would 
cry  out  in  pain. 

Day  after  day,  she  grew  worse ;  but  evening 
after  evening  Sebastian  took  her  into  Los  An 
geles.  She  had  been  lazy  long  enough ;  time 
was  passing,  and  she  must  begin  to  work  if  she 
ever  became  a  great  singer.  At  last  one  even 
ing,  after  a  day  of  frightful  heat,  there  were 
indications  of  a  coming  storm.  Anita  was  ill 
and  also  terrified  at  the  sight  of  the  great 
black  clouds.  When  Sebastian  began  to  get 
ready  to  go  out,  she  begged : 


JUAN  PICO  211 

"  Oh,  Sebastian,  please,  don't  make  me  go 
to-night.  It's  going  to  storm.  I'm  afraid. 
Please,  let  me  stay  here."  She  was  pale  and 
haggard,  the  very  shadow  of  her  former  self. 
But  Sebastian  looked  at  her  without  the  least 
mercy,  saying : 

"  Stay  home,  eh  ?  You're  getting  tired  of 
earning  your  living,  are  you  ?  That  comes  of 
my  being  too  good  to  you.  Put  on  your  hat." 

"  O,  Sebastian,  please." 

"  Get  on  your  hat." 

Without  further  entreaty  she  made  ready  to 
go,  hung  her  guitar  about  her  neck  and  fol 
lowed  Sebastian.  The  clouds  came  nearer ;  if 
they  broke  the  storm  would  be  furious.  Anita 
was  weak  and  cold  and  tired.  Once  she  stag 
gered  and  came  near  fainting.  Sebastian 
turned  his  head  callously  away  and  walked  on 
rapidly  in  advance. 


FIFTEEN 

"  If  you  could  go  back  to  the  fork  of  the  road, — 
Back  the  long  miles  you  have  carried  the  load ; 
Back  to  the  place  where  you  had  to  decide 
By  this  way  or  that  through  your  life  to  abide ; 
Back  to  the  sorrow  and  back  to  the  care ; 
Back  to  the  place  where  the  future  was  fair, — 
If  you  were  there  now,  a  decision  to  make, 
O  pilgrim  of  sorrow,  which  road  would  you  take  ?  " 

OFF  the  port  of  Eedondo  two  great  ships 
were  about  to  pass  each  other.  The  old  Santa 
Maria  had  tossed  upon  the  waves  all  the  long 
distance  from  Alaska,  and  her  sails  were 
bound  close  to  the  masts.  Over  the  infinite 
desolation  of  troubled  waters  she  had  forced 
her  weary  way.  Winds  and  rains  in  the  far 
north  had  torn  away  the  topmost  sails,  and 
the  white  gulls  with  coral-like  legs  sat  motion 
less  in  the  rigging.  The  ship  was  heavily 
weighted  with  dried  fish  consigned  to  the 
ports  of  Mexico  and  Lower  California. 

The  Queen,  like  a  great  white  swan,  had 
come  up  from  South  America,  bringing  with 
her  the  golden  fruits  of  the  tropics. 
212 


JUAN  PICO  213 

The  two  ships  were  about  to  touch  each 
other  in  passing.  Eager  for  a  moment's 
pleasure  the  sturdy  sailors  leaned  over  the 
rails  and  exchanged  concealed  presents  which, 
according  to  the  custom  with  sailors  in  south 
ern  waters,  were  not  to  be  opened  until  the 
ships  were  far  out  to  sea.  Shouts  of  laughter 
from  deep  chests  rang  in  the  air  impregnated 
with  the  healthful  odor  of  tar.  The  winds 
were  uncertain  and  a  light  drizzling  rain  fell. 
Some  freight  had  been  exchanged,  and  the 
ships  were  delayed  in  parting.  Finally  bells 
rang,  whistles  were  blown  and  commands 
shouted.  In  deep  vibrating  voices  the  crews 
sang  together  and  the  two  great  birds  of  the 
sea  glided  away  in  the  darkness.  Gradually 
all  sounds  were  swallowed  up  by  the  rustlings 
of  the  intervening  billows  and  soon  in  the  veil 
of  misty  rain  the  lights  vanished. 

The  Queen  had  made  a  leisurely  trip  from 
the  south,  stopping  at  various  ports  discharg 
ing  or  taking  on  the  different  kinds  of  mer 
chandise.  At  San  Diego,  she  had  remained 
but  a  short  time,  the  amount  of  freight  there 
being  light.  Among  the  passengers  who 


214  JUAN  PICO 

came  aboard  was  Juan  Pico.  But  not  the 
Juan  Pico  of  a  year  ago.  Careless  in  dress  he 
walks  now  as  a  man  upon  whose  shoulders 
there  rests  a  heavy  burden.  The  lines  of  his 
face  have  become  firmer,  more  hardened.  On 
his  temples  the  hair  is  touched  with  gray. 
And  his  eyes  have  the  alert  look  of  a  hunter ; 
they  scrutinize  men  and  women  closely.  He 
has  become  a  searcher. 

Indifferent  to  the  rain,  Juan  stood  on  the 
deck  and  listened  to  the  last  faint  sounds  from 
the  departing  vessel ;  then  he  turned  his  eyes 
in  the  direction  of  Santa  Monica.  He  was 
going  back  to  Los  Angeles.  How  long  it  was 
since  his  hasty  departure  for  San  Francisco  a 
year  ago.  What  changes  might  he  not  find 
at  the  mission.  For  a  long  time  he  had  not 
written,  or  heard  from  Father  Jerome.  "Would 
he  find  him  well?  God  grant  it;  his  good 
friend  in  whom  he  could  trust  so  perfectly. 
He  longed  to  see  the  father,  to  tell  him  in  de 
tail  all  that  he  had  done  to  find  Anita,  and  in 
return  to  hear  more  fully  of  the  efforts  he  and 
Senora  Gintaris  had  made.  But,  perhaps, 
Anita  had  been  found  and  was  already  back 


JUAN  PICO  215 

on  Otero  ranch.  Perhaps  she  was  dead !  He 
walked  the  deck  nervously.  To  him  the  ves 
sel  scarcely  moved.  If  he  could  only  jump 
overboard  and  swim  ashore.  By  and  by,  the 
steady  swash  of  the  waves  against  the  prow 
quieted  the  throb  of  his  aching  head.  Throw 
ing  himself  down  on  a  coil  of  rope,  he  pulled 
a  piece  of  canvas  over  him  and  soon  fell 
asleep. 

Hours  passed ;  as  they  came  nearer  land  the 
rain  ceased;  a  strong  breeze  was  blowing, 
which  continued  to  grow  hotter.  In  the  air 
were  small  particles  of  dust.  Juan  awoke  un 
comfortably  warm ;  he  cast  off  the  heavy 
canvas  and  sprang  to  his  feet.  They  were  not 
far  from  port.  In  a  short  time  they  would  be 
in  Santa  Monica.  Everywhere  was  bustle 
and  confusion.  He  hurried  below  to  gather 
up  his  few  belongings.  When  he  returned  to 
the  deck,  the  vessel  had  cast  anchor.  Tran 
quilly  suave  and  slightly  pink,  the  day  began 
to  break.  The  golden  flashes  of  the  sun  came 
on  in  unchangeable  immobility  and  silence, 
bathing  the  mountain  peaks  in  salmon  and 
rose,  and  spreading  over  the  valleys  a  gray 


216  JUAN  PICO 

gauze  veil,  while  in  the  canons  and  clefts  of 
the  mountains  it  was  still  dark.  The  rain 
which  had  threatened,  had  not  fallen,  and  the 
whole  earth  was  dying  of  a  feverish  thirst. 
As  day  advanced  Juan  heard  the  distant  bells 
of  the  Angelus  ringing  at  Santa  Monica,  and 
his  whole  being  was  imbued  with  a  sense  of 
hopefulness  and  felicity  such  as  he  had  not 
known  for  months.  With  a  feeling  of  relief 
he  disembarked. 

Ascending  a  hill  near  the  edge  of  the  town, 
he  paused  to  look  back.  What  a  glorious  pan 
orama  was  spread  before  him!  The  distant 
shore  line  ran  clear,  against  the  blue  waters. 
Heaped  along  the  boarder  of  the  lower  hills 
were  the  rugged  cliffs.  His  eyes  irresistibly 
turned  to  the  valley.  There,  over  the  fallow 
fields  and  masses  of  motionless  trees,  was 
spread  the  fiery  effluence  of  the  sun.  He  came 
out  upon  a  road  leading  to  Los  Angeles.  He 
saw  the  familiar  shapes  of  enormous  pepper 
and  eucalyptus  trees  and  the  strange  outlines 
of  the  cypress,  that  smelled  of  the  distant 
Orient.  A  ranchero  driving  by  asked  him 
if  he  would  ride.  He  started  to  get  in  the 


JUAN  PICO  217 

wagon,  hesitated,  thanked  the  man  and  told 
him  he  preferred  to  walk.  Though  Juan 
longed  to  see  the  father,  he  also  dreaded  to 
meet  him.  "What  news  might  he  have  to  tell  ? 
It  was  early ;  he  did  not  want  to  reach  the 
house  before  Father  Jerome  was  up.  It  was 
not  far.  He  would  walk. 

As  he  journeyed,  he  noticed  that  all  the 
little  streams  had  famished ;  that  the  sheep  on 
the  hills  were  panting  with  thirst ;  that  even 
the  grass  was  dry  and  lifeless;  that  over 
everything,  penetrating  to  the  very  heart, 
was  the  merciless,  maddening  dust.  In  the 
slightest  breeze  it  swept  across  the  country 
like  clouds  in  the  desert.  Juan's  eyes  smarted 
with  the  sting  of  the  alkali.  He  met  men 
and  women  loaded  down  with  water  which 
they  had  gone  miles  to  procure.  They  prayed 
for  rain  and  declared  that  unless  it  came 
soon,  death  was  certain  to  every  living  thing. 
Wrapped  in  snow,  he  saw  the  Sierra  Madre 
Mountains.  Their  towering  peaks  were  eighty 
miles  away,  and  yet  they  looked  so  near. 
"Why  did  not  the  snow  melt?  What  good 
did  it  do  away  off  there  in  the  freezing  still- 


218  JUAN  PICO 

ness  ?  And  here  it  could  bring  back  to  life 
both  flowers  and  beasts.  The  heat  from  the 
sun  began  to  grow  almost  unendurable ;  there 
was  no  shade  and  he  walked  on  rapidly. 

bearing  Los  Angeles  he  saw  that  the  once 
rapid,  rushing  Los  Angeles  river  was  now  no 
wider  than  a  trout  stream.  In  the  original 
bed  of  the  river  grew  strange  plants  with 
yellow  and  purple  flowers.  And  the  water 
that  did  flow  through,  was  warm.  It  had 
passed  over  the  burning  plains  at  the  foot  of 
the  mountains.  He  came  to  an  old  tumbled- 
down  barn.  In  its  shade  he  rested.  A  deep 
silence  filled  the  air ;  all  things  became  dim 
and  strange  to  him,  and  his  thoughts  drifted 
off  he  scarcely  knew  why,  to  the  quiet  mission 
of  Santa  Barbara,  where  the  monks  passed 
their  sacrificed  lives  in  peace  and  quietness. 
It  had  been  years  since  he  had  seen  it,  but  the 
grand  old  picture  returned  to  him  like  a 
dream.  Along  the  corridors  he  saw  the  quiet 
monks  pass  and  repass.  And  above  them  in 
the  shadowy  arches  round  their  clay-built  nests 
he  saw  a  thousand  twittering  swallows  fly. 
How  far  off  from  him  seemed  that  cool,  that 


JUAN  PICO  219 

restful  place.  He  bound  the  red  silk  sash 
tighter  about  his  head,  then  rubbed  his  eyes 
with  the  backs  of  his  hands.  Rising,  he  went 
on  toward  the  city  whose  roofs  mingled  here 
and  there  with  dried-up  apricot  trees,  were 
now  visible.  He  saw  the  roof  of  the  mission. 
His  heart  beat  faster ;  he  hastened  his  foot 
steps,  but  drawing  nearer,  he  walked  slowly 
and  heavily. 

At  the  mission  he  stopped  to  allow  a 
wedding  party  to  pass  out.  He  folded  his 
arms  and  gazed  at  the  little  bride  blushing 
beneath  her  wreath  of  orange  blossoms  and 
under  her  veil  of  white.  Preceding  the  bride 
and  groom  were  two  children  carrying  lighted 
tapers,  and  strewing  violets,  thyme,  and  crape 
myrtle  over  the  stones  of  the  pavement.  An 
aged  mother  walked  behind  with  a  few 
friends.  Soon  they  all  got  into  a  large 
wagon  that  was  covered  like  a  tent  with 
white  muslin.  The  front  was  open  like  a 
large  old-fashioned  bonnet,  while  the  back 
was  tightly  closed.  Lashed  to  the  back  of 
the  wagon  were  a  number  of  boxes  contain 
ing  turkeys,  geese  and  ducks,  that,  as  the 


220  JUAN  PICO 

wagon  started,  thrust  their  long  necks  through 
the  slats  and  set  up  a  great  clatter ;  to  this  ac 
companiment  the  happy  bridal  party  drove 
away.  They  had  come  in  from  one  of  the 
ranches  and  were  returning  to  a  life  of  happi 
ness  among  the  hills. 

In  the  spire  of  the  old  cathedral  near-by  the 
chimes  began  to  play  and  rippled  away  over 
the  roofs  in  a  rain  of  melody.  Juan  leaned 
against  the  wall  numb  and  anguished.  The 
wagon  disappeared  in  a  cloud  of  dust.  He 
walked  into  the  mission  and  kneeled  down  in  a 
dark  corner.  The  candles  were  still  burning ; 
white  flowers  were  scattered  in  the  aisle  from 
the  door,  even  up  to  the  white  altar.  And 
there  was  the  dull  odor  of  incense. 

Now  and  then,  poor  Mexicans  came  noise 
lessly  into  the  church  and  knelt  down  to  pray 
before  their  favorite  saints,  and  the  rattle  of 
their  beads  resounded  against  the  heavy 
wooden  rails.  After  a  long  time  Juan  raised 
his  head,  and  looking  up  from  among  the 
shadows,  he  saw  Father  Jerome  pass  behind 
the  altar  and  enter  the  sacristy.  Then  he 
arose  and  also  passed  through  the  sacristy. 


JUAN  PICO  221 

Soon  he  stood  at  Father  Jerome's  door.  It 
was  open ;  the  priest  was  busy  writing.  Juan 
waited,  quietly  studying  the  good  father's  face. 
Presently  Father  Jerome  laid  down  his  pen 
and  began  to  fold  the  paper.  Juan  stepped 
forward ;  the  father  glanced  up  and  exclaimed : 

"  Juan  Pico,  my  son ! "  the  priest  cordially 
came  to  meet  him.  "  How  glad  I  am  to  see 
you,  but,"  he  added,  hastily,  as  he  led  him  to  a 
chair,  "I  am  forgetting;  I  ought  not  to  be  so 
glad  to  see  you,  for  you  have  neglected  me 
shamefully.  Ah,  son,  why  have  you  not  writ 
ten  me  ?  Your  long  silence  has  made  me  very 
uneasy  for  your  own  welfare,  as  well  as  sure 
you  had  no  news.  I  wrote  twice  to  you  in 
San  Francisco,  but  you  did  not  answer.  Then 
I  wrote  to  Father  Michael.  He  replied  that 
some  time  before  you  had  been  to  see  him  and 
he  had  done  what  he  could  for  you." 

"Yes,  father,"  said  Juan,  thoughtfully,  "I 
took  the  letter  you  gave  me  to  him ;  he  was 
good ;  he  tried  to  help  me,  but  it  was  no  use." 
Then  starting  up  quickly,  he  asked:  "Have 
you  heard  anything  from  her  ?  do  you  know 
where  she  is  ?  " 


222  JUAN  PICO 

"  I'm  sorry  to  tell  you,  Juan,  but  we  have 
been  unable  to  find  the  slightest  trace;  be 
yond  the  ones  you  knew  a  year  ago,  that  they 
were  here  for  a  day  or  two,  and  started  for 
San  Francisco." 

"  That  was  wrong,  they  never  went  to  San 
Francisco,"  replied  Juan,  stolidly,  "  they  went 
to  San  Diego." 

"You  followed  them  there?"  Father  Je 
rome  leaned  forward  eagerly. 

"  Yes,  but  I  found  they'd  gone.  If  I'd  only 
gone  down  to  San  Diego  sooner."  Juan  looked 
away  hopelessly ;  then  he  added :  "  But  there 
isn't  a  place  in  San  Francisco  that  I  didn't  go 
into.  If  they'd  been  there  I'd  have  got  her 
away  from  him.  All  the  while  I  spent  search 
ing  there,  was  time  wasted."  He  looked 
blankly  out  of  the  window,  as  he  asked: 
"  What  have  you  and  Senora  Gintaris  done  ?  " 

"  For  weeks  after  you  went  away,"  said  the 
father  quietly,  "we  had  men  scouring  the 
city  and  the  surrounding  country,  but  without 
avail.  First,  there  would  come  a  rumor  that 
they  had  been  seen  here,  then  there,  up  the 
country  or  on  the  coast,  but  always  when  the 


JUAN  PICO  223 

Senora  had  such  rumors  followed  up  by  a 
careful  search  they  would  prove  to  be  ground 
less.  At  last,  disheartened,  the  Senora  re 
turned  to  Otero  ranch." 

Juan  turned  to  the  father :  "  Have  you  told 
her  that  I  was  looking  in  San  Francisco  ?  " 

"Yes,  and  she  begged  me  to  write  her  as 
soon  as  I  heard  from  you." 

"  Father,  I  didn't  write,  because  I  thought 
every  day  I'd  find  her.  And  I  kept  hoping  it 
would  be  the  next  day  or  the  next,  until  I  got 
discouraged.  Then  I  took  a  vessel  down  the 
coast.  At  San  Diego  I  got  track  of  them; 
they'd  been  there  all  the  time  I  was  in  San 
Francisco." 

"  If  we  had  only  known  it ! "  exclaimed  the 
priest. 

Juan  continued  in  a  lifeless  way : 

"  Folks  around  there  say  they  were  awfully 
poor.  Most  of  the  time  they  lived  in  a  little 
adobe,  way  off  from  everybody.  He  got  some 
old  woman  to  come  and  live  with  them." 
Juan's  nostrils  expanded ;  he  breathed  la- 
boredly.  "Before  they  left  there  he  made 
Anita  sing  in  the  streets." 


224  JUAN  PICO 

"  Sing  in  the  streets,  my  son  ?  " 

"  Yes,  he  made  her  do  worse  than  that,  be 
fore  they  went  away ;  he  made  her  sing  in  a 
saloon." 

"  Mother  of  God ! "  said  the  priest  crossing 
himself. 

"  And  it's  made  her  sick.  They  say  down 
there  she  doesn't  look  like  the  same  girl.  Oh ! " 
Juan  rose  and  walked  back  and  forth  from 
the  window. 

"  Did  you  find  out  where  they  have  gone  ?  " 

"Yes,  he  said  he  was  going  to  San  Fran 
cisco.  But  he  lied  before,  probably  he  has 
again.  And  it  was  so  long  ago." 

"  How  long,  son,  since  they  left  San  Diego  ?  " 

"  Nearly  nine  months.  She  may  have  died 
in  that  time.  But  if  she's  alive  I'll  find  her." 
Juan  threw  back  his  head.  "I'll  find  her. 
To-morrow,  I  go  back  to  San  Francisco.  If 
he's  there  he  won't  get  away  from  me  this 
time."  Juan  was  repressing  inward  sobs.  His 
heart  was  bursting  with  grief. 

Father  Jerome  came  to  him,  and  took  his 
hand,  saying  earnestly : 

"Go,  search  for  her  to  the  ends  of  the 


JUAN  PICO  225 

earth."  The  priest  opened  the  innermost 
chamber  of  his  heart.  "  I  speak  to  you,  son, 
through  suffering,  from  years  of  repentance. 
I,  too,  have  loved.  When  I  was  a  younger 
man  than  I  am  now,  I  cared  for  a  woman,  as 
you  care  for  Anita.  We  had  a  quarrel ;  she 
went  away.  I  did  not  know  where;  in  my 
anger,  I  did  not  try  to  find  out.  I  was  wrong. 
Had  I  done  as  I  ought,  my  life  would  have 
been  blessed  by  her  companionship."  The 
priest  turned  away  and  sat  down  at  his  desk ; 
after  a  moment  he  looked  up  earnestly  at  Juan 
standing  so  still,  and  he  added : 

"  The  love  of  a  good  woman  is  a  benediction 
from  God.  And  He  has  given  woman  to  man 
that  she  may  help  and  cheer  him.  It  is  your 
privilege,  nay,  your  right,  son,  to  rescue  Anita." 
As  the  father  paused,  Juan  came  and  sat  down 
in  a  chair  near  him.  Father  Jerome's  clear 
eyes  looked  into  Juan's,  as  he  continued : 

"  No  man  is  worthy  of  happiness,  who  does 
not  strive  for  it." 

Greater  contrast  could  not  have  existed  be 
tween  two  men  than  that  between  Father 
Jerome  and  Juan  Pico. 


226  JUAN  PICO 

Father  Jerome  in  his  home  in  Quebec  had 
been  accustomed  to  association  with  the  most 
cultured  people.  And  in  his  younger  days,  as 
his  family  were  possessed  of  wealth,  he  had 
enjoyed  the  advantages  of  foreign  travel.  His 
noble  bearing  suggested  an  inclination  for  the 
military,  but  when  his  soul  glanced  from  his 
eyes  there  spoke  the  poet  in  him.  His  voice 
was  extremely  gentle  and  carried  with  it  the 
mingled  tones  of  authority  and  sadness.  After 
his  college  days  in  Montreal  were  ended,  he 
went  to  Spain  in  search  of  health.  Upon  his 
return  it  was  a  great  surprise  to  his  friends  to 
learn,  that  without  giving  a  reason,  he  had  en 
tered  the  church.  The  next  surprise  was  his 
flight  to  San  Diego.  But  the  never-ending 
tide  of  life  surged  on,  and  now  they  had  al 
most  forgotten  him.  He  had  dropped  out  of 
the  lives  of  his  old  associates  as  a  star  disap^ 
pears  from  a  constellation. 

Father  Jerome  would  not  have  come  to 
Southern  California  at  all,  had  not  his  failing 
strength  forced  him  there.  Most  of  his  boy 
hood  had  been  spent  in  the  gloomy  solitudes 
of  the  Saguenay,  and  as  a  youth  he  had  hunted 


JUAN  PICO  227 

and  fished  on  the  shores  of  Lake  Saint  John. 
He  loved  the  gray  skies  of  Canada ;  and  all 
his  early  associations  made  it  difficult  for  him 
to  yield  an  unreserved  allegiance  to  the  seduc 
tive  charms  of  perpetual  summer.  But  grad 
ually  his  early  predilections  were  outlived  and 
he  allowed  the  land  of  sunshine  and  of  flow 
ers  to  win  him  completely. 

When  he  first  came  from  San  Diego  to  Los 
Angeles  he  had  cherished  the  fond  hope  of 
building  a  new  church  that  would  be  a  credit 
both  to  his  efforts  and  to  Los  Angeles ;  but 
gradually  this  hope  Kad  crumbled  to  dust. 
The  poor  were  everywhere ;  and  when  he 
looked  upon  their  needs,  he  felt  it  would  be  a 
sin  to  spend  large  sums  of  money  upon  a 
handsome  edifice. 

With  returning  strength,  he  threw  his  whole 
soul  into  the  work.  By  the  hundred,  he  had 
written  bootless  letters  to  the  priests  in  Can 
ada,  asking,  yea,  imploring  help  for  the  pov 
erty-stricken  community  about  him.  Equally 
bootless  had  been  his  visits  to  San  Francisco. 
Sometimes  he  obtained  great  promises  from 
the  owners  of  mines  or  of  great  ranches,  but 


228  JUAN  PICO 

as  the  weeks  stretched  into  months  and  the 
months  into  years  he  lost  faith  in  many  of  his 
people.  But  never  in  his  God  ;  and  he  worked 
on  untiringly,  comforting  and  helping  all  to 
the  best  of  his  ability.  His  nature  was  a 
strange  admixture  of  hopefulness  and  despond 
ency.  Powerless  to  do  anything  for  the  hun 
dreds  who  sought  his  aid,  he  would  sometimes 
grow  weary,  indignant  and  disheartened,  and 
would  leave  the  mission  in  charge  of  a  young 
assistant  and  visit  for  days  the  faithful  Mexi 
cans  in  the  canons.  Then  remorse  for  his 
weakness  would  come  to  him  and  almost  with 
out  a  farewell  to  his  host,  he  would  hasten 
back  to  the  mission.  Possibly  he  understood 
Juan's  nature  the  better  for  having  some  weak 
nesses  of  his  own.  At  any  rate  there  was  no 
one  in  California  who  knew  why  he  had  en 
tered  the  priesthood,  or  to  whom  he  talked 
more  freely  than  he  had  to  Juan. 

After  a  while  Father  Jerome  and  Juan 
went  out  on  the  veranda ;  and  there  they  sat 
most  of  the  day;  the  priest  comforting  and 
advising  Juan.  At  length  all  was  settled; 
soon  it  was  evening,  and  Juan  had  only  to 


JUAN  PICO  229 

wait  for  another  day  to  come  and  he  would  be 
on  his  way  to  San  Francisco.  Night  was 
coming  on  rapidly,  gray  shadows  gathered 
hurrying  to  succeed  the  scented  day.  About 
ten  o'clock  they  rose  to  part  for  the  night. 
Laying  his  hand  upon  Juan's  shoulder,  Father 
Jerome  said : 

"  No  matter  what  sorrow  may  come  to  you, 
my  son,  never  for  an  instant  doubt  the  good 
ness  and  mercy  of  God.  Be  patient  and  He 
will  guide  you.  Good-night.  The  little  room 
at  the  head  of  the  stairs  is  reserved  for  you.  I 
shall  go  into  the  mission  now.  But  you  must 
rest."  The  two  men  held  each  the  other's 
hand  in  a  warm  clasp ;  then  the  priest  went 
into  the  church.  The  holy  season  of  Advent 
was  at  hand  and  he  was  to  spend  the  night  in 
prayer. 

Juan  walked  round  the  mission  and  through 
the  garden.  Companionship  with  Father  Je 
rome  had  caused  every  noble  thought  that  he 
had  ever  known  to  spring  into  renewed  life. 
Hope  and  faith  like  twin  stars  shone  above 
the  horizon  of  his  imagination.  Of  the  two, 
he  saw  hope  the  plainer,  and  she  beckoned  to 


230  JUAN  PICO 

him,  lured  him  on,  so  that  he  again  made 
ready  to  launch  his  plans  upon  the  incoming 
wave  of  expectation. 

In  this  mood  the  garden  was  confining  to 
him,  and  he  walked  out  into  the  street.  Hope 
whispered,  "  the  world  may  yet  be  Paradise." 
And  with  quiet  breath  he  thought : 

"  I  will  bring  Anita  back  to  the  Senora  and 
we  shall  be  happy  again." 

The  rain  that  had  threatened  earlier  in  the 
evening  and  had  fallen  in  occasional  flurries 
had  passed  by  and  the  air  was  silent  in  the 
hush  that  comes  before  a  storm.  Off  on  the 
horizon,  Juan  saw  a  small  sad  cloud  appear ;  it 
was  bursting  with  water.  Presently,  it  was 
followed  by  others.  They  grew  to  mountains 
and  hurried  across  the  sky.  A  strong  wind 
from  the  sea  rent  and  tore  them.  "Was  it  pos 
sible  that  the  long  expected  rain  was  near  ? 


SIXTEEN 

"  The  snowdrop  and  then  the  violet 
Arose  from  the  ground  with  warm  rain  wet; 
And  their  breath  was  mixed  with  fresh  odor,  sent 
From  the  turf,  like  the  voice  and  the  instrument." 

— SHELLEY. 

GROWING  darker  and  their  weight  increas 
ing  the  heavy  clouds  dropped  lower  and  lower 
over  the  town.  One  moment  a  gale  would 
catch  up  the  dust  in  a  blinding  sheet  and 
carry  it  furiously  away ;  then  a  calm  would 
follow.  Overhead,  the  clouds  continued  to 
rush  madly  together.  And  far  off,  or  nearer 
by,  could  be  heard  the  noise  of  the  scurrying 
wind. 

Walking  along  the  street  Juan  pushed 
against  the  wind  and  the  eifort  accorded 
with  his  feelings ;  he  was  wide-awake,  every 
faculty  on  the  alert;  he  was  thinking,  and 
planning. 

"  If  Sebastian  is  in  San  Francisco  I  will  be 
sure  to  find  him." 

He  had  thought  the  time  previously  spent 

331 


232  JUAN  PICO 

there,  wasted.  But  it  was  not,  for  now  he 
knew  the  place  well,  and  there  was  not  a  re 
sort  Sebastian  could  go,  where  he  would  not 
eventually  be  able  to  find  him. 

And  Anita ;  when  he  thought  of  her  prob 
able  ill-treatment  his  blood  surged  like  a  mol 
ten  river  in  his  veins.  When  he  had  found 
her  and  taken  her  away  from  Sebastian,  he 
would  send  word  to  Father  Jerome,  and  let 
him  notify  the  Senora.  The  Senora  had  or 
dered  him  never  to  see  Anita  again,  but  when 
she  knew  that  he  had  rescued  her,  and  was 
bringing  her  back  to  Otero  ranch,  what  would 
she  say  ?  Would  she  look  at  him  with  scorn 
as  she  had  before  ? 

An  intense  longing  swept  over  him  to  see 
Anita.  How  would  she  look ;  would  she  smile 
and  give  him  her  hand  as  she  did  that  day 
when  he  told  her  that  he  loved  her?  The 
agonizing  thought  of  the  possible  distance  that 
separated  them,  was  only  made  bearable  by 
the  hope  that  he  might  find  her  in  San  Fran 
cisco. 

Suddenly  he  stopped ;  he  found  himself  out 
side  Madam  Gonfarone's.  In  front  of  the  sa- 


JUAN  PICO  233 

loon,  Mexican  mustangs  pawed  the  stones  and 
occasionally  struck  sparks  with  their  hoofs. 
On  their  backs  were  the  big  leather  straps 
that  fell  to  the  ground.  From  some  of  the 
mustangs  steam  arose,  and  foam  dropped  from 
their  mouths.  The  place  was  filled  almost  to 
suffocation,  and  a  crowd  of  men  and  women 
had  collected  in  front  of  it.  Some  were  peer 
ing  in  at  the  windows;  while  others  were 
standing  on  boxes  and  kegs,  looking  over  the 
shoulders  of  their  neighbors.  Forming  a 
fringe  along  the  edge  of  the  crowd  were 
several  poorly  clad  children. 

Inside,  there  was  an  excited  and  applauding 
crowd.  Men  with  coal-black  eyes  and  fea 
tures  bearing  the  brand-marks  of  dissipation, 
jostled  together.  Women  with  hollow  cheeks 
laughed  and  jeered  at  one  another.  The  large 
oak  tables  had  been  pushed  back  against  the 
wall  and  on  them  men  and  women  were 
seated, — the  men  smoking  and  laughing,  the 
women  shrugging  their  shoulders  as  they 
tipped  their  glasses  together.  Most  of  the 
men  had  come  in  from  the  ranches,  and  their 
clothes  were  dusty,  their  boots  were  heavy 


234  JUAN  PICO 

and  their  spurs  clashed  together.  Some  had 
horse-hair  lariats  that  looked  like  spotted 
snakes  coiled  about  their  necks.  The  old 
wooden  statue  of  Saint  Peter  was  wreathed 
in  a  cloud  of  smoke ;  on  his  brass  halo  hung  a 
wreath  of  paper  laurel.  No  one  looked  at 
him.  Some  of  the  women  had  pulled  down 
the  festoons  of  dried  fish  that  hung  among  the 
rafters  and  were  trying  to  eat  them.  Others 
had  put  their  arms  around  the  necks  of  cow 
boys,  so  tanned  that  they  looked  like  Arabi 
ans.  Sailors  with  naked  breasts  on  which  the 
Virgin's  face  was  tattooed  in  indigo, — smug 
glers  with  lynx-like  eyes  were  everywhere 
among  the  crowd,  and  jammed  in  groups 
along  the  walls.  The  place  was  full  of  mov 
ing  reptiles. 

Juan  Pico  stood  outside ;  he  heard  now  and 
then,  above  the  tide  of  voices,  the  notes  of  a 
guitar.  Some  one  was  playing  the  introduc 
tion  to  a  Spanish  fandango.  The  music 
stopped  and  when  they  knew  that  some  one 
in  the  saloon  was  dancing,  the  crowd  outside 
pushed  forward  like  the  sea  against  a  cliff.  In 
a  moment  there  was  a  terrific  crash  and  a  half 


JUAN  PICO  235 

dozen  men  fell  out  through  a  window.  Men 
and  women  shouted  and  screamed,  but  when 
it  was  discovered  that  no  serious  accident  had 
happened,  they  gradually  stopped  their  out 
cries.  When  the  dance  was  finished  the  crowd 
stamped  their  feet  upon  the  floor,  and  ap 
plauded  wildly.  The  dance  had  to  be  re 
peated.  Suddenly  everything  within  grew 
still,  and  the  clear  silvery  voice  of  a  woman 
filled  the  fetid  air. 

Juan  threw  up  his  hand  to  his  head  and 
staggered  back  as  if  struck  by  a  blow.  For  a 
moment  he  stood  like  a  man  turned  to  stone. 
His  blood  was  as  cold  as  ice  and  he  scarcely 
breathed.  Again  the  crowd  inside  began  to 
cheer,  and  again  the  voice  flowed  through  the 
open  door.  The  sound  pierced  him  like  the 
thrust  of  a  sword,  and  while  others  applauded, 
he  shouted : 

"  It  is  Anita !    Anita  ! " 

In  the  deafening  noise  his  voice  sounded 
like  a  clanging  bell.  But  no  one  listened.  A 
fury  possessed  him.  His  temples  throbbed 
as  if  each  vein  would  burst.  The  crowd  con 
tinued  to  cheer.  It  stirred  him  to  action. 


236  JUAN  PICO 

With  the  strength  of  a  Hercules,  he  forced  his 
great  shoulders  through  the  mob,  making  the 
crowd  fall  back  like  earth  before  the  plow. 

"It  is  Anita,"  he  shouted,  with  staring 
eyes.  "Anita!"  He  rushed  ahead.  The 
crowd  closed  in  behind  him. 

"  It  is  Anita ! "  He  looked  like  a  madman. 
Startled  men  and  women  jumped  up  from 
their  seats;  some  too  frightened  to  move, 
others  trying  with  all  their  might  to  get  to 
ward  the  door. 

Those  outside  grew  more  anxious  to  get  in ; 
they  became  uncontrollable,  and  like  a  pent-up 
stream  darted  forward,  forcing  everything  be 
fore  them.  The  pressure  bore  Juan  along  to 
the  side  of  Anita.  As  she  fell  fainting,  he 
caught  her  in  his  arms.  Her  cherished  guitar 
dropped  to  the  floor  and  was  broken  to  pieces. 
Now,  those  within  tried  to  escape  like  rats 
through  the  small  door  and  the  windows.  In 
an  uproar  of  cursing  and  screaming,  tables 
were  overturned  and  lights  extinguished. 

Juan  endeavored  to  protect  Anita  against 
the  crush ;  he  lifted  her  as  far  as  possible  above 
the  crowd.  And  supporting  her  on  his  breast 


JUAN  PICO  237 

and  shoulder  he  carried  her  half -lifeless  form 
into  the  street. 

In  a  few  moments  the  abode  of  Madam 
Gonfarone  was  deserted.  She  was  distracted 
and  sat  wailing  in  the  street.  Her  husband 
swung  himself  into  a  saddle  and  was  soon  out 
of  the  town. 

A  crowd  surrounded  her,  questioning  and 
alarmed.  No  one  knew  exactly  what  had 
happened.  At  last  madam  got  up  on  her  feet 
and  approached  her  door,  at  every  step  loudly 
bewailing  her  ill-fortune.  Presently  she  raised 
her  hand,  saying : 

"What  is  that?    Listen." 

From  the  darkness  within  came  the  sound 
of  groans.  Madam  wrung  her  hands.  It  had 
started  to  rain ;  misty  vapors  filled  the  street. 
Water  trickled  down  the  sides  of  the  adobe 
walls  and  the  wind  prowled  here  and  there 
like  a  hungry  beast  of  prey.  Madam  had  not 
the  courage  to  go  inside.  She  begged  two 
Mexicans  to  go  into  the  saloon  for  her.  They 
took  down  one  of  the  gaudy,  flaring  lamps  at 
the  door  and  slipping  within,  put  the  light  on 
the  bar.  Soon  one  of  the  men  called  out : 


238  JUAN  PICO 

"  It's  the  old  man,  madam ;  he's  dead  !  " 

"  Fetch  him  out,  then.  I'll  pay  you  for  your 
trouble." 

Many  of  the  crowd  still  lingered.  These 
pressed  forward  and  looked  into  the  wrecked 
bar-room.  Near  the  bar,  beneath  the  table  at 
which  he  had  been  sitting,  lay  Sebastian,  the 
man  who  in  that  very  room  had  declared  with 
oaths : 

"  There  is  no  God ! " 

While  Anita  was  singing  and  when  the 
crowd  had  first  pushed  into  the  saloon  he  had 
fallen  to  the  floor.  There  he  had  been  caught 
in  the  merciless  tangle  of  the  crowd  that 
surged  back  and  forth,  as  they  were  thrown 
first  to  one  side  then  to  the  other,  now  shoved 
forward,  now  pressed  back.  He  lay  pinned 
to  the  floor  blaspheming  in  agony,  and  a 
thousand  times  treading  and  retreading  feet 
passed  over  him. 

The  Mexicans  removed  the  heavy  table 
from  his  body.  He  lay  in  the  lankness  of 
death,  gashed  and  torn  by  spiked  boots  and 
cutting  spurs.  The  men  callously  dragged  up 
the  trampled  body  from  the  filthy,  pasty  floor. 


JUAN  PICO  239 

The  blood   dripped  in    ugly    splotches.     His 
head  hung  loosely  from  his  broken  neck. 

At  sight  of  the  mangled  mass  those  of  his 
kind,  beneath  whose  feet  he  had  died,  fell 
back  from  the  door  and  slunk  away. 

Between  ejaculations  of  horror,  madam  or 
dered  the  men  not  to  leave  him  on  the  steps, 
but  to  put  him  in  an  alley  some  distance  off. 
Then  the  Mexicans  mounted  their  horses  and 
galloped  away.  And  madam  hurried  for 
shelter  to  a  quarter  like  her  own.  Sebastian 
was  alone  in  the  darkness  and  in  the  driving 
storm.  His  face  was  turned  up  to  God.  The 
last  of  him  was  dead.  For  his  soul  had  long 
since  perished  beneath  waves  of  recklessness 
and  sin. 

A  fierce  joy  coursed  through  Juan's  veins. 
The  distance  that  he  imagined  to  exist  be 
tween  him  and  Anita  was  annihilated.  He 
had  found  her.  She  was  in  his  arms  saved 
and  safe.  He  was  carrying  her.  At  first  he 
had  no  further  thought  than  that  he  was  tak 
ing  her  away  from  the  place  in  which  he  had 
found  her. 
The  rain  began  to  fall.  He  hurried  on.  He 


240  JUAN  PICO 

saw  lights  appearing  in  the  windows  of  houses 
along  the  way.  Men  and  women  inside  were 
throwing  themselves  upon  their  knees  and 
giving  thanks  for  the  rain.  Outside  in  the 
downpour,  Juan  uttered  incoherently  rude  and 
passionate  thanksgivings.  He  called,  "  Anita, 
Anita ! "  as  though  beside  himself  with  joy. 
Anita's  dripping  hair  came  down.  It  clung 
about  his  hand  and  arm.  He  stopped  for  a 
moment  under  a  tree.  He  repeated  over  and 
over: 

"Anita,  my  little  Anita  !    It  is  Juan." 

She  lay  against  his  heart.  Her  silence,  her 
insensibility  frightened  him.  He  hastened  on. 
He  did  not  know  where  to  go.  Should  he 
knock  where  a  light  was  burning  ?  They 
might  not  take  them  in.  They  might  not  be 
able  to  help  her.  He  walked  on.  Should  he 
take  her  to  Father  Jerome  ?  His  housekeeper 
was  old  and  slow,  and  he  was  too  far  away. 

"  Anita,  Anita,  speak  to  me  !  " 

He  thought  of  Sister  Magdalen  the  good 
friend  of  the  Seiiora.  A  bar  of  light  seemed 
to  direct  him.  He  cried  aloud.  He  shielded 
Anita's  face  and  head  with  his  sombrero. 


JUAN  PICO  241 

Their  garments  were  now  heavy  with  water, 
and  he  bent  beneath  the  force  of  the  rain. 
Struggling,  breathing  painfully,  his  heart 
nearly  breaking  with  mingled  joy  and  despair, 
he  came  at  last  to  the  door  of  the  convent. 

It  was  a  blurred  mass  in  the  darkness. 
There  was  no  light.  He  heard  no  sound  ex 
cept  the  dashing  of  the  rain  and  the  plunging 
of  streams  from  the  spouts.  He  knocked 
loudly  at  the  heavy  door,  then  knelt  on  one 
knee  the  better  to  support  his  helpless  burden. 
He  listened.  There  was  no  sound,  no  answer 
ing  glimmer  of  light.  Anita  was  growing 
cold.  Desperate,  brokenly  calling  upon  the 
saints  and  begging  Anita  to  waken,  he  began 
to  pound  with  his  hand  clenched  like  a  ball  of 
iron. 

"  Was  no  one  coming  ?  " 

He  heard  the  empty  halls  echoing  and  re 
echoing. 

"  Had  no  one  heard  him  ?    Must  she  die  ?  " 

With  redoubled  force,  he  pounded,  pounded, 
pounded. 


SEVENTEEN 

"  I  will  not  let  thee  go, 

I  hold  thee  by  too  many  bands : 
Thou  sayest  farewell,  and,  lo ! 

I  have  thee  by  the  hands, 
And  will  not  let  thee  go." 

— ROBERT  BRIDGES. 

THE  rain,  the  welcome  rain.  How  it  swept 
up  from  the  sea  and  across  the  meadows, 
bringing  with  it  a  sound  as  welcome  as  the 
rustlings  of  angels's  wings.  It  had  started 
noiselessly  in  the  early  evening  of  the  day  be 
fore,  here  and  there  an  occasional  shower  of 
spurting  drops  had  fallen  in  the  dust.  For  a 
time  the  storm  ceased  to  threaten,  then  gath 
ered  again  in  heavy  clouds.  Wet  gusty  vapors 
preceded  the  drops  that  increased  in  volume 
and  in  numbers,  sweeping  across  the  window- 
panes  and  pouring  over  the  old  tile  roofs.  Ac 
companied  by  gales  of  wind,  rain  fell  in  tor 
rents  during  the  middle  of  the  night. 

However,  morning  found  the  flowers  and 
trees  still  eagerly  devouring  the  drops  that  fell 
242 


JUAN  PICO  243 

upon  them.  The  water  had  washed  the  dust 
from  their  leaves  and  now  formed  little  pools 
along  the  roadside  and  in  the  gardens.  It 
gushed  musically  from  the  occasionally  over 
flowing  spouts  and  crept  in  at  the  window 
sills.  Through  the  warm  trees  it  frequently 
poured  like  shot  from  the  mouths  of  cannon, 
and  then  again  it  scarcely  moved  the  leaves. 
Everywhere  the  rain  was  rousing  dormant  life 
into  activity.  The  languid  pulses  of  every 
living  thing  began  to  throb  with  renewed 
vigor.  The  buds  opened,  and  the  saps  climbed 
upward  though  the  branches,  even  to  the  very 
ends  of  the  leaves.  All  day  long  the  rain  fell, 
never  for  an  instant  completely  ceasing.  Be 
hind  the  smiling  white  gray  of  the  sky,  the 
sun  was  veiled  like  a  bride.  Newly  formed 
streams  coursed  along  the  roadside.  Even  the 
river  began  to  swell  and  to  rush  along  with  a 
merry  sound.  Finally  the  whole  country  re 
joiced  to  its  utmost  corners.  It  had  grown 
deliciously  cool.  A  fine  reviving  perfume, 
like  that  of  the  ambrosial  wine  of  flowers  was 
everywhere.  The  air,  the  light,  the  water  and 
the  clouds  took  on  an  overpowering  splendor. 


244  JUAN  PICO 

In  the  convent  of  The  Most  Holy  Name, 
Anita  tossed  upon  a  narrow  white  bed  in  the 
delirium  of  fever.  Through  the  high  arched 
window  of  the  cell  the  white  light  fell  upon 
her  young,  thin  face  and  her  unseeing  eyes. 
Outside  in  the  same  white  light  stood  an  old 
cypress  tree  gnarled  and  twisted  by  its  life  of 
pain. 

Anita  attempted  to  raise  her  head  from  the 
pillows,  asking  in  a  frightened  voice :  "  What 
has  happened  ?  "  She  tried  to  look  about  her ; 
then  she  called  one  of  the  white-gowned  nuns 
to  the  bedside,  whispering :  "  Is  this  heaven  ? 
Are  you  angels?"  Before  a  reply  could  be 
made  she  called  loudly :  "  Juan !  Juan !  Come ! 
Help !  Help !  "  Then  she  wept  and  cried  in 
agony :  "  No,  Juan  is  dead !  Juan  is  dead ! 
He  can  never  come  to  me  again."  When  she 
had  ceased  to  sob  she  lay  quiet  for  a  few  mo 
ments  ;  suddenly  she  began  to  sing.  She  sang 
with  a  curiously  strong  and  vibrating  voice, 
whose  notes  hung  upon  her  lips  like  dew  on  a 
deep  red  rose.  Again  she  lay  quiet  in  a  pallor 
like  that  of  death.  Hours  passed.  A  doctor 
made  frequent  visits.  Always  nuns  watched 


JUAN  PICO  245 

beside  her,  stroking  her  hair,  bathing  her  tem 
ples,  giving  her  medicines  or  holding  the  rest 
less  hands  in  their  cool  soothing  fingers.  Ten 
derly  they  rendered  silent  ministry  to  every 
want  they  could  discover.  Near  by,  a  nun  on 
her  knees  offered  up  continual  prayer.  Occa 
sionally  Anita's  fever-tossed  mind  drifted  back 
to  Otero  ranch,  and  she  would  rehearse  over 
and  over  the  details  of  that  idyllic  life.  At 
other  times  she  shrieked,  endeavored  to  escape 
from  the  arms  that  held  her,  prayed  wildly,  or 
clinging  to  the  rosary  about  her  neck,  would 
cry  for  help  and  for  forgiveness.  At  such 
times  the  nun  who  was  on  her  knees  would 
pray  aloud,  and  when  Anita  grew  quieter 
Sister  Magdalen  would  sing  to  her. 

Juan  came  and  went  throughout  the  day. 
He  had  no  sooner  gone  back  to  Father  Jerome 
than  he  started  again  for  the  convent.  Pa 
tiently  the  nun  at  the  door  answered  his  in 
quiries.  He  was  restless,  heartbroken.  He 
was  growing  old. 

Toward  twilight  the  rain  ceased  and  a  daz 
zling  white  light  gleamed  along  the  horizon. 
It  stretched  further  and  further  away,  and  the 


246  JUAN  PICO 

vast  expanse  of  earth  became  more  and  more 
measureless.  The  luminous  void  of  the  air 
grew  wider  and  gasped  with  a  flickering 
light.  Kagged  clouds  slowly  lifted,  and  far 
off  the  sea  looked  white.  In  the  great  vault 
of  heaven  the  enormous  rain  clouds  had 
massed  themselves  in  a  curtain  of  black  be 
fore  the  infinite.  The  mountains  concealed 
themselves  even  to  their  snowy  crests  in 
a  veil  of  moving  mists  and  vapors.  In  the 
streets  of  the  town  thronged  a  joyous  crowd 
laughing  and  singing.  Gentle  breezes  searched 
their  way  through  open  windows  and  doors. 
At  last  a  vivifying  burst  of  sunlight  filled  all 
the  luminous  space  with  a  golden  glory,  and 
made  royally  red  the  magnificent  upper  cur 
tain  of  the  clouds. 

As  day  declined,  the  freshness  of  the  air,  the 
medicine,  the  loving  attendance,  all  combined 
to  quiet  Anita;  though  at  one  moment  she 
breathed  with  a  labored  painfulness,  at  the 
next,  her  breathing  could  scarcely  be  per 
ceived.  With  eyes  half  open,  now  and  then, 
she  would  raise  her  slender,  delicate  hands  as 
if  trying  to  grasp  a  form  that  eluded  her. 


JUAN  PICO  247 

When  the  sunlight  fell  across  her  breast  she 
opened  her  arms  wide  to  receive  it. 

By  and  by,  in  the  distant  chapel,  the  nuns 
were  singing  the  evening  service.  Anita  lifted 
her  heavy  eyelids  and  tried  to  form  the  words, 
but  she  was  too  weak.  Sister  Magdalen,  sit 
ting  beside  her,  softly  began  to  sing,  softly  and 
more  softly  still ;  at  length  Anita  fell  into  a 
light  slumber. 

The  great  cloud  overhead  had  passed  away, 
and  the  clarity  of  the  sky  was  like  that  of  a 
diamond  drenched  with  water.  In  the  trans 
parent  atmosphere,  glittering  stars  came  out 
and  twinkled,  as  if  shaken  on  the  ends  of 
staffs  borne  by  an  invisible  guard  of  angels. 

In  the  quiet  cell  a  little  light  was  burning. 
Nuns  watched  beside  her  hour  after  hour; 
when  one  rose  another  took  her  place.  Anita 
slept  lightly,  roused  and  slept  again.  At 
length,  to  gain  some  rest,  Sister  Magdalen 
left  the  bedside.  Passing  along  the  corridors 
she  saw  Juan  Pico  again  at  the  door.  She 
beckoned  him  to  come  in.  She  looked  with 
pity  upon  his  sorrow-drawn  face,  as  she 
said: 


248  JUAN  PICO 

"  Her  sleep  will  refresh  her.  To-morrow, 
she  will  probably  know  you." 

"  Is  she  better  ?  Do  you  think  she  is  bet 
ter?" 

"  If  she  were  not  so  very  weak  " —  Sister 
Magdalen  hesitated,  then  she  added :  "  I  can 
not  say  that  I  think  she  is  better.  But  do 
not  be  alarmed.  If  there  should  be  any  great 
change  I  will  send  to  Father  Jerome's  for 
you." 

"  Thank  you.     I  will  go  then." 

"  Yes,"  she  replied,  compassionately,  "  that 
is  better,  for  you  should  get  some  rest."  Sis 
ter  Magdalen  started  to  move  away ;  then  she 
returned,  saying :  "  Senora  Gintaris  has  proba 
bly  been  delayed  by  some  accident,  but  no 
doubt  she  will  come  before  morning.  I  shall 
try  and  get  a  little  sleep,  so  as  to  be  able  to 
meet  her  when  she  arrives.  I  hope  she  will 
be  here  when  Anita  wakens.  Good-night, 
Seiior  Pico." 

"  Good-night." 

Yery  late  that  night  a  carriage  rolled  through 
the  streets  of  Los  Angeles  and  stopped  before 
the  barred  door  of  the  convent.  At  the  instant 


JUAN  PICO  249 

the  horses  halted  a  dark  figure  left  the  car 
riage.  The  door  was  opened  silently  before 
her  and  Senora  Gintaris  was  led  directly  to 
Sister  Magdalen.  Trembling  and  unable  to 
speak  she  sank  into  the  arms  of  the  pale  nun 
who  kissed  her  on  both  cheeks,  saying : 

"  My  dear  Olga ;  we  have  done  everything, 
given  her  every  care.  But  so  far  she  would 
not  have  known  you.  Now  she  is  sleeping." 

"  I  must  see  her,  let  me  see  her,"  demanded 
and  at  the  same  time  entreated  the  Senora. 

"  Yes,  Olga,  for  a  moment,  if  you  will  keep 
perfectly  still  and  not  waken  her." 

In  the  faint  light  of  the  lamp  the  thinness 
and  fragility  of  the  sleeping  girl  were  not 
fully  apparent  to  the  Senora.  Nevertheless 
she  was  cruelly  shocked,  and  tears  ran  down 
her  own  changed  face.  Anita  became  rest 
less  under  the  devouring  gaze,  and  Sister  Mag 
dalen  drew  the  Senora  away.  Finally  she 
persuaded  her  to  accept  some  refreshment  and 
to  go  to  bed. 

"But  I  know  so  little,"  she  expostulated; 
"  your  letter  was  short  and  I  did  not  question 
the  messenger." 


250  JUAN  PICO 

"You  know  the  worst  and  the  best,  Olga. 
But  do  not  seek  to  know  more  to-night.  If 
Anita  is  conscious  to-morrow,  you  must  be  able 
to  be  with  her  and  to  preserve  your  own  calm 
ness.  All  that  I  know,  I  will  tell  you  later 
on."  And  soon  they  parted  for  the  night. 

Under  the  wonderful  sky,  under  the  bril 
liant  sun,  the  convent  preserved  the  hush  of  its 
cloistered  life.  It  was  morning  of  the  second 
day  since  Anita  had  been  found.  Sister  Mag 
dalen  saw  her  slowly  waken  to  consciousness. 
For  some  time  Anita  lay  quietly  looking  to 
ward  the  window,  then  she  began  to  turn  her 
eyes  from  object  to  object  as  though  half- 
conscious  of  an  unf  amiliarity ;  Sister  Magdalen 
rose  and  gave  her  a  little  wine,  saying  gently : 

"  Good-morning,  Anita." 

Anita  responded  faintly.  In  a  short  time 
the  physician  came  in  and  noted  her  pulse  and 
her  breathing.  He  made  no  inquiries,  but  left 
medicines.  Sister  Magdalen  went  with  him  to 
the  door.  He  said  briefly : 

"  The  medicines  are  merely  to  keep  up  her 
strength." 

"  How  is  she,  doctor  ?  " 


JUAN  PICO  251 

"  She  is  very  weak — there  is  no  power  of  re 
sistance  left." 

"  Then  it  will  soon  be  over  ?  " 

"  Yes,  you  should  send  for  the  priest." 

"  Has  she  strength  enough  to  see  any  one  be 
fore  that?" 

"  I  think  you  would  better  let  her  see  the 
priest  first.  She  may  pass  away  at  any  mo 
ment.  She  may  live  an  hour  or  two,  not 
longer." 

Sister  Magdalen  returned  to  the  bedside ;  the 
sight  of  her  sweet  face  pleased  Anita,  who  was 
gradually  realizing  her  surroundings.  Look 
ing  serenely  at  her,  Sister  Magdalen  took  her 
hand,  saying : 

"Anita,  do  you  wish  anything?  Is  there 
any  one  you  would  like  to  see  ?  " 

Suddenly  Anita's  pale,  thin  face  flushed : 

"  Madre  mi,"  she  cried,  and  then,  "  No,  it  is 
no  use,  she  would  not  come — I  shall" —  she 
stopped. 

Sister  Magdalen  saw  in  the  doorway  the 
eager,  imploring  face  of  Senora  Gintaris.  The 
sister  raised  a  warning  finger. 

"  Wait,"  she  commanded  softly,  and  then  she, 


252  JUAN  PICO 

said  to  the  dying  girl :  "  Listen,  Anita,  I  am 
Sister  Magdalen,  an  old  friend  of  the  Senora." 

Anita  tried  feebly  to  lift  the  nun's  hand  to 
her  lips,  but  the  attempt  was  too  great  for 
her. 

Sister  Magdalen  stroked  Anita's  hair 
gently :  "  You  are  safe  in  the  convent  of  The 
Most  Holy  Name.  You  have  been  very  ill. 
We  have  sent  for  the  Senora." 

Anita  uttered  a  sharp  exclamation. 

"  Yes,  we  have  sent  for  her,"  continued  the 
nun,  "  and  she  is  coming." 

With  effort,  Anita  gasped :  "  She  does  not 
know — You  do  not  know — O,  save  me,  Sister 
Magdalen." 

"  My  poor  lamb,"  said  the  sister,  putting  her 
face  close  beside  Anita's,  "the  Senora  loves 
you.  We  love  you.  Christ  and  the  Holy 
Virgin  love  you,  and  pity  you." 

"Pray  for  me,"  sobbed  Anita.  The  nun 
soothed  her  and  prayed  for  her.  After  that 
she  lay  still  for  some  time.  Sister  Magdalen 
left  the  room  for  a  moment.  Anita  instantly 
missed  her.  Upon  her  return  she  looked  up  at 
the  nun  and  said  almost  imploringly : 


JUAN  PICO  253 

"  If  madre  mi  is  coming,  I  hope  she  will 


come  soon." 


"Yes,  it  will  be  soon.  Now,  the  Father 
Confessor  is  here." 

Anita  looked  up,  her  eyes  burned  with  a 
light  reflected  from  eternity. 

"  Thank  you,  I  am  ready." 

Presently  Father  Jerome  stood  beside  the 
fading  girl.  His  compassionate  face  and  gentle 
voice  gave  her  spirit  strength  and  courage. 
And  she  laid  bare  her  heart  to  him. 

After  confession  and  absolution,  prepara 
tions  were  made  for  administering  extreme 
unction.  In  a  few  moments,  prayers  for  the 
dying  had  been  said  and  she  was  anointed 
with  the  holy  oil.  At  last,  comfort  was 
brought  to  her  longing  soul.  When  the  first 
exhaustion  had  worn  away,  she  seemed  to 
grow  stronger.  For  some  time  she  lay  with 
her  eyes  closed.  Suddenly  she  opened  them, 
and  met  the  loving  gaze  of  the  Senora. 

At  first  Anita  could  not  speak;  then  she 
cried  appealingly : 

"Madre  mi,  madre  mi!  O,  forgive  me, 
madre  mi." 


254  JUAN  PICO 

"  I  forgive  you,"  said  the  Senora  excitedly. 
"  O,  my  little  one,  you  must  forgive  me."  She 
held  Anita  in  her  arms  close  to  her  heart. 
But  after  that  first  outcry  she  preserved  an 
outward  calm.  She  touched  Anita  tenderly, 
she  gazed  at  her  lovingly,  she  kissed  her. 
After  a  time  she  repeated  softly : 

"  You  will  forgive  me,  Anita  ?  " 

Anita  wondered  at  her. 

"  Won't  you  forgive  me,  Anita  ?  Say  you 
forgive  me  ?  " 

"  I  forgive  you,"  replied  Anita,  but  looked 
at  her  without  comprehending. 

The  Senora  held  her  closer.  A  moment 
later  she  drew  something  from  her  bosom, 
saying : 

u  See,  Anita,  here  is  your  rosary." 

Anita  smiled.  The  Senora  gently  removed 
the  black  rosary  and  placed  the  golden  one 
once  more  about  her  slender  neck.  But 
Anita's  happy  moments  were  fleeing  rapidly. 
She  was  very  weak.  Finally  Sister  Magdalen 
said: 

"  She  is  tired,  Olga ;  shall  we  not  put  her 
back  upon  the  pillows  ?  " 


JUAN  PICO  255 

They  laid  her  down.  But  the  Senora  did 
not  loose  her  hand.  Anita  asked  no  ques 
tions  ;  she  was  contentedly  looking  at  madre 
mi.  By  and  by,  she  said  softly : 

"  Tell  me  about  home,  madre  mi.  Who 
feeds  the  linnets — and — the  peacocks  ?  " 

"  Dolores  feeds  them  now,  Anita,  but  they 
are  waiting  for  you  to  come  back."  Anita 
gently  shook  her  head. 

With  wonderful  composure  the  Senora  con 
tinued  : 

"  And  every  day  she  waters  the  flowers  for 
you.  The  azaleas  and  the  geraniums.  Do  you 
remember  how  they  used  to  grow  along  the 
veranda?"  Anita  slightly  moved  her  head. 
"Well,  they're  growing  there  just  the  same. 
And  now  they're  all  in  blossom.  The  camellias 
are  beautiful  this  year.  I  gather  them  every 
day  for  the  Yirgin." 

Anita's  strength  was  failing,  and  the  Senora 
spoke  more  rapidly : 

"Marie  waits  on  those  who  are  sick, — and 
Leo  takes  care  of  your  little  pony ;  every  day 
I  feed  her  an  apple  as  you  used  to  do.  She 
always  turns  her  pretty  head  and  whinnies. 


256  JUAN  PICO 

She  whinnies  for  you,  Anita ;  she  does  not  for 
get  you.  We  have  a  new  olive  press.  And 
Leo's  little  boy  is  learning  to  count  the  sheep 
and"- 

Anita's  disengaged  hand  was  clasping  the 
ivory  crucifix.  The  Senora  paused  and  touched 
it,  saying : 

"  I  found  it  on  the  road,  Anita,  when  I  was 
looking  for  you." 

"  Did  you  look  for  me,  madre  mi  ?  " 
"I   looked  everywhere,  my  child.     Oh,  if 
we  had  only  known  where  to  go  !     Juan  Pico 
searched  for  you,  too,  Anita,  more  than  any 
one  else." 

"  Juan  ! — Juan  ! — Sebastian  told  me  he  was 
dead ! " 

"  No,  Anita.  He  found  you ;  he  was  the  one 
who  brought  you  here." 

"  Juan  is  not  dead  ?     O,  madre  mi ! " 
"My  child,  he  is  here,  close  beside  you." 
Juan  had  been  waiting  at  the  head  of  the 
cot  just  out  of  her  sight ;  now  he  came  close  to 
her  and  knelt  beside  her  pillow.     He  trembled 
with  suppressed  sobs  and  his  eyes  looked  as 
though  they  had  burned  up  their  tears.     For 


JUAN  PICO  257 

a  moment  she  looked  into  his  tremulous  face, 
then  she  said : 

"  Juan,  it  is  you — when  I  saw  you  in  that 
dreadful  place  I  thought  you  were  an  angel 
from  heaven."  She  moved  the  hand  holding 
the  crucifix  toward  him,  and  Juan  took  her 
hand  and  the  divine  emblem  in  his  strong 
clasp. 

"  O,  Anita !  Anita ! "  He  bowed  his  head 
over  the  little  hand. 

The  Senora  was  no  longer  able  to  control 
herself  and  was  weeping  aloud.  Sister  Mag 
dalen  put  her  arm  about  her  and  led  her  from 
the  room. 

Calmly  Anita  watched  them  go,  then  her 
tender  violet  eyes  met  Juan's  in  a  long,  long 
look.  He  checked  his  sobs. 

"Juan,  I  went  away  because  I  wanted  to 
find  you.  They  told  me  you  were  not  coming 
back  to  Otero  ranch — I  wanted  to  see  Los 
Angeles — I  thought  you  would  be  glad  to  see 
me." 

"I  would  have  been  glad,  Anita,  so 
glad." 

"  Then  you  went  down  to  San  Diego,  and 


258  JUAN  PICO 

we  went  there  to  find  you.  When  we  had 
been  there  a  few  days,  Sebastian  told  me  you 
were  dead." 

Juan  shuddered,  shaking  the  little  bed. 

"  Do  not  weep,  Juan ;  God  is  very  good  to 
me." 

Juan  said  quickly :  "  No.  He  has  not  been 
good  to  you,  Anita." 

"  Yes,  Juan,  for  I  ought  never  to  have  gone 
away."  Her  lips  moved  soundlessly.  At  last 
she  said  aloud :  "  I  did  wrong  to  go  away,  and 
besides  I  didn't  know  about  anything  away 
from  the  ranch.  I  ought  to  have  waited ; 
madre  mi  would  have  taken  me  sometime. 
And  you  would  have  come  back  again, 
wouldn't  you,  Juan  ?  " 

"I  don't  know,  but  anything  would  have 
been  better  than  this." 

"No,  Juan,  do  not  say  that.  It  has  been 
dreadful — dreadful  for  me.  I  have  prayed  to 
die,  I  have  prayed  for  forgiveness.  If  you 
had  not  found  me,  I  might  have  died  unfor- 
given.  Oh,  thank  the  Holy  Virgin,  thank 
God  that  you  found  me." 

The  dying  girl  looked  at  him  with  implor- 


JUAN  PICO  259 

ing,  loving  pity,  "  And  by  and  by  when  I  am 
gone — pray  for  me — always." 

He  buried  his  face  in  the  pillows  beside  her. 

"I  will,  Anita,  I  will." 

There  was  a  long  silence.  Every  moment 
Anita's  hold  on  life  was  loosening.  Again 
she  spoke : 

"  Juan  ? — Juan  ? — do  you  hear  me,  Juan  ?  " 

"Yes,  every  word." 

"  When  I  went  away  from  madre  mi,  I  was 
a  little  girl ;  now,  Juan,  I  am  a  woman.  Look 
at  me,  Juan, — I  love  you, — I  love  you  best  on 
earth.  I  am  glad  you  found  me.  Remember 
that  always." 

"  Anita,  Anita,  you  must  not  die ! "  he  cried 
passionately. 

"  O,  Juan,  I  am  glad  to  die.  If  I  lived  I 
could  never  be  your  wife.  If  you  could  know 
everything,  you  would  understand  that  it  is 
best  for  me  to  die.  I  never  thought  that  I 
should  be  happy  again,  and  I  am  happy  now. 
The  saints  and  the  Virgin  have  interceded  for 
me.  Madre  mi  has  forgiven  me ;  I  see  you  be 
fore  I  die." 

He  could  not  reply ;  looking  up  into  his  hag- 


260  JUAN  PICO 

gard  countenance,  she  continued  to  speak 
softly  to  him : 

"  I  am  going  where  there  is  no  sin  and  no 
sorrow.  You  and  madre  mi  will  come  to  me 
there." 

While  she  was  speaking  the  Seiiora  and  Sister 
Magdalen  returned.  And  her  loving  eyes 
were  shining  upon  them  out  of  the  shadow  of 
death.  Sister  Magdalen  was  praying.  The 
Senora  again  knelt  beside  Anita.  It  was  very 
quiet  in  the  little  room.  The  narrow  case 
ment  of  the  window  framed  a  patch  of  vivid 
living  blue.  Throughout  the  compass  of  the 
heaven,  life  and  light  poured  from  the  sun. 
Its  direct  lance-like  beams  were  falling  every 
where  outside,  and  leaves  and  blossoms  rustled 
soothingly  in  the  wind.  In  the  convent  gar 
den  a  thrush  broke  forth  into  a  burst  of  happy 
song,  then  dropped  note  by  note  into  silence. 
In  the  silence  they  heard  Anita's  voice  faint 
and  sweet : 

"  I  shall  watch  for  you — Juan,  and  for  you — 
dear  madre  mi." 

She  spoke  no  more,  but  looked  with  calm 
ness  on  them  both.  That  loved  name  madre 


JUAN  PICO  261 

mi,  was  last  upon  her  lips.  Her  last  earthly 
look  was  Juan's.  Then  she  smiled  as  though 
to  some  heavenly  visitant.  And  thus  she  left 
them. 

The  great  white  ship  had  anchored  in  the 
bay  and  she  had  gone  aboard.  Noiselessly 
the  anchor  had  been  hauled  up  and  the  won 
derful  vessel  was  sailing  on  over  the  crystal 
sea,  on  toward  the  great  white  throne. 


EIGHTEEN 

"  Banish  the  viewless  friend 
Whose  horrid  presence  men  have 
Named,  '  Despair  ' : 
Let  all  thy  efforts  tend 
Through  life  to  some  great,  some  noble  end, 
And  life  itself  will  soon  a  nobler  aspect  wear." 

— RUBLES. 

"KEQUIESCAT  in  pace."  These  words  rang 
continuously  in  Juan's  ears.  Still  he  heard  the 
voice  of  Father  Jerome.  Still  he  saw  the 
candles  at  her  head  and  feet.  And  amid  the 
profusion  of  flowers  he  saw  her  calm,  pale 
face. 

"  O,  God  ! "  Juan  stretched  his  arms  above 
the  flower-heaped  mound.  He  rose  to  his  feet. 
All  night  he  had  listened  to  the  wind  and  the 
rain,  and  had  knelt  in  thought  beside  Anita's 
grave.  And  he  had  come  to  her  in  the  first, 
faint  light  of  morning.  The  rain  had  stopped, 
the  clouds  had  broken  away  and  the  sun  was 
shining.  Birds  flew  joyously  from  tree  to 
tree  singing  matins  of  praise  and  thanksgiving. 


JUAN  PICO  263 

In  the  old  cemetery  the  stones,  emblematic  of 
human  mortality,  were  everywhere  crowded 
upon,  and  almost  overborne  by  the  vigorous 
and  profuse  life  of  spring.  The  lately  parched 
shrubs,  trees,  the  earth  itself  attested  in  them 
selves  the  miracle  of  the  resurrection. 

Juan  raised  his  eyes  to  the  hills.  There 
great  flocks  of  sheep  gambolled  and  frisked. 
Mists  clung  to  the  mountains  and  slowly 
rolled  up  along  their  sides.  Presently  they 
vanished  in  the  higher,  purer  atmosphere  above 
the  cirrus  clouds. 

Clad  in  her  emerald  robes,  once  more,  spring 
breathed  balmy  refreshment.  As  if  by  magic, 
the  landscape  had  been  transformed.  Already 
the  oleanders  were  magnificently  pink  and  be 
ginning  to  bloom  in  profusion.  Cacti  buds, 
some  of  them  hard  as  nuts  the  day  before, 
were  now  open  and  their  silky  tassels  hung  in 
cups  of  gold.  The  resting  tide  of  life  had 
everywhere  broken  into  a  foam  of  flowers  and 
had  buried  the  earth  in  a  sea  of  petals.  So 
stainless  and  perfect  a  loveliness  was  a  revela 
tion  of  nature's  plenitude  and  power.  From 
the  soil  came  fragrant  odors.  Nature's  holi- 


264  JUAN  PICO 

day,  the  high  festival  of  spring  had  come,  and 
the  velvety  grass  rose  up  from  the  earth  spon 
taneously. 

Juan  looked  at  the  flowers  she  had  loved, 
the  delicate  pink  fox-gloves  that  shoot  up 
among  the  grasses  in  the  fields  like  crocuses  in 
the  snow.  On  all  the  trees  blossoms  would 
soon  be  blowing  free  and  fresh.  The  pome 
granates  would  bloom  year  after  year,  but  she 
— he  groaned. 

He  left  the  cemetery  and  started  toward  the 
city.  Passing  a  pool  he  noticed  that  the  iris 
were  making  ready  to  wave  their  spotless  ban 
ners  in  the  sun.  He  turned  away ;  he  could 
not  look  into  the  Eyes  of  Heaven,  remem 
bering  that  she  would  no  longer  wear  them. 
Over  on  the  mountain-side  near  the  edge  of 
the  timber  line,  he  saw  the  pin  on  and  blue 
gum  trees  hanging  from  the  rocks  as  if 
suspended  by  their  roots.  His  life  like  theirs, 
must  henceforth  be  hard  and  arid.  What  had 
he  done  that  all  happiness  should  be  forever 
taken  from  him?  The  ground  on  which  he 
walked  seemed  to  lift  him  as  high  and  bare 
from  human  comfort  as  were  the  trees  upon 


JUAN  PICO  265 

those  craggy  rocks.  Was  there  a  God  ?  Was 
He  a  good  God  ?  Why  had  He  singled  him 
out  of  all  the  world  to  suffer  so  terrible  a 
grief? 

As  he  passed  along  he  saw  that  the  roads 
and  lanes  among  the  ranches  were  dotted  here 
and  there  with  groups  of  laborers.  He  heard 
girls  singing,  and  now  and  then  the  deeper 
vibration  of  men's  voices  replying  in  some 
musical  antistrophe.  He  heard  shouts  and 
laughter.  How  could  any  one  laugh  ?  From 
time  to  time  he  met  fishermen  hastening  to 
the  seaside,  their  nets  tangled  about  their 
shoulders  or  dangling  behind  them. 

Like  a  silver  thread  among  the  hills  he  saw 
the  narrow,  sparkling  Los  Angeles  river,  com 
ing  from  the  distant  border-land  of  melting 
snow,  crowned  by  the  white  mountain  crests. 
In  every  direction  the  landscape  was  superbly 
beautiful.  .tafreaorr  WHAHY 

Coming  toward  him,  Juan  noticed  a  car 
riage.  As  it  drew  nearer  he  recognized  the 
horses,  then  the  driver.  Inside  the  carriage 
sat  Senora  Gintaris  heavily  veiled.  She  told 
Pedro  to  stop.  She  put  back  her  veil  and 


266  JUAN  PICO 

held  out  her  hand  to  Juan.  For  a  moment 
neither  of  them  spoke.  Then  the  Senora 
asked  in  a  voice  strangely  altered  from  her 
formerly  imperious  tones : 

"  You  have  been  ?  "— 

"  Yes,  Senora,  I  have  been  with  her." 

"  I  am  going  there  now.  Then  I  return  to 
Otero  ranch."  She  sighed  deeply.  "  It  is  not 
the  old  Otero  ranch,  it  can  never  be  that 
again.  How  I  have  missed  Anita.  How  I 
shall  miss  her  all  my  life  ! " 

The  proud  Senora  was  weeping.  Silvery 
bands  showed  in  her  dark  hair.  Juan's  face 
convulsed ;  he  pitied  her,  he  pitied  hfmself ,  as 
though  the  grief  was  not  his  own.  It  was  a 
transient  approach  to  calmness ;  just  then  he 
could  suffer  no  more  in  his  own  person.  The 
Senora  said : 

"  I  am  growing  old,  I  shall  not  take  this 
journey  many  times.  But  you  will,  I  hope, 
come  to  see  me  at  Otero  ranch." 

"  I  will  come,  Senora." 

"Juan,  for  the  sake  of  Anita,  forgive  my 
harsh  judgment  of  you — my  harsh  treat 
ment." 


JUAN  PICO  267 

He  did  not  reply,  and  she  added,  "  I  did  not 
trust  you  " — 

"  I  do  not  blame  you ;  if  I  had  not  been  a 
gambler  all  this  might  never  have  happened." 

"  Perhaps,  but  I  was  selfish — very  selfish  in 
my  love  for  Anita.  I  wished  to  keep  her  al 
ways  with  me.  To  have  her  always  happy, 
always  singing,  always  a  child.  That  was  not 
possible.  If  I  had  taught  her  more  of  the 
ways  of  the  world,  and  considered  her  wishes 
more — she  asked  for  so  little — if  I  had  con 
sidered  her  wishes  at  least  equally  with  my 
wishes  for  my  own  selfish  happiness,  I  am 
sure  the  first  fatal  step  would  never  have  been 
taken,  I  am  sure  that  she  would  be  with  us 
now."  The  Senora  broke  completely  down. 
Juan  said  thoughtfully : 

"  If  you  are  to  blame,  all  the  saints  know 
that  I  forgive  you ;  I " — he  stopped,  then  said 
with  vehemence,  "  I  was  not  fit  for  Anita." 

"  You  had  not  shown  what  was  in  you,"  she 
replied,  with  a  deep,  tremulous  earnestness. 
"  I  feel  that  you  are  almost  my  son.  I  trust 
you  now.  Good-bye,  Juan." 

"  Thank  you,  Senora.     Good-bye." 


268  JUAN  PICO 

Juan  watched  the  carriage  until  it  was 
nearly  out  of  sight,  then  proceeded  on  his 
way.  A  garment  of  majesty  invested  the 
meadow-land  at  his  feet.  And  the  brilliancy 
of  the  sky  and  of  the  sun  filled  him  with  in 
describable  awe.  It  was  Sunday  and  off  in 
the  distance  he  could  hear  the  chimes  from 
the  cathedral.  He  felt  utterly  hopeless.  He 
did  not  want  to  live ;  he  was  afraid  to  die. 
Anita  would  wait  for  him  in  heaven.  Could 
he  ever  hope  to  enter  there  ? 

As  he  was  nearing  the  town  he  met  an  old 
woman  bending  beneath  a  heavy  bundle  tied 
upon  her  shoulders.  She  was  mumbling  to 
herself  in  a  distressed  croaking  voice.  Her 
appearance  was  so  repulsive  that  he  instinc 
tively  looked  aside,  not  however  before  he 
had  seen  a  big  ulcer  in  the  corner  of  her 
mouth  over  which  she  held  one  distorted 
hand,  the  other  lifted  her  skirts  from  before 
her  feet.  A  little  further  along  he  came  upon 
an  old  adobe  house.  The  recent  storm  had 
made  a  wreck  of  it,  part  of  the  old  red  roof 
had  caved  in  and  a  side  wall  had  crumbled 
outward.  From  appearances  it  had  been  re- 


JUAN  PICO  269 

cently  occupied  and  the  occupants  had  been 
obliged  to  make  a  hasty  exit.  The  old  yucca 
plants  gazed  inquiringly  at  him  over  the  wall 
behind  which  the  old  house  seemed  to  skulk. 
He  felt  a  dumb  sympathy  with  the  uncon 
scious  ruin. 

Entering  Los  Angeles,  he  met  little  children 
dressed  in  white  on  their  way  from  church. 
It  was  Advent  Sunday  and  they  carried  long 
white  tapers  in  their  hands  and  wore  wreaths 
of  lilies.  Following  them  were  sisters  of 
mercy  in  blue  gowns  and  strange  white  bon 
nets.  The  service  of  the  mass  was  over; 
Father  Jerome  had  left  the  sacristy  and  was 
sitting  in  the  study  when  Juan  came  in  after 
him,  without  knocking  or  salutation  of  any 
kind.  Father  Jerome  rose,  greeting  him  with 
warm  affection.  Juan's  heart  opened  to  his 
touch  and  look  of  sympathy.  He  exclaimed : 

"  Father,  I  cannot  live.    Teach  me  to  die ! " 

"  My  son,  put  such  sin  away  from  you ;  you 
must  live  until  it  is  God's  will  to  take  you." 

"  Oh,  you  do  not  know  " — 

"  Ah !  but  I  do  know.  And  when  I  was 
ready  to  receive  it,  God  gave  me  His  com- 


270  JUAN  PICO 

panionship ;  and  in  it  I  have  found  a  peace 
and  joy  that  no  human  companionship  can 
ever  give."  His  clear  eyes  met  Juan's.  "You 
think,  now,  that  you  cannot  know  a  life  of 
happiness,  but  you  will  learn,  as  we  all  must 
learn,  that  no  love  that  stands  before  His,  can 
bring  enduring  happiness. 

Juan  looked  up  fiercely  :  "  You  say  God  is 
good?" 

"  Yes,  my  son,  God  is  good." 

"  If  He  is  good,  why  has  He  always  made 
me  suffer  ?  "  He  sprang  to  his  feet ;  he  walked 
about  the  room.  "  But  worst  of  all,  He  has 
made  Anita  suffer!  What  had  she  done? 
That  little  happy  girl.  She  never  had  a 
wicked  thought."  He  stopped  before  Father 
Jerome,  demanding  :  "  Is  that  good  ?  Would 
I  make  you  suffer  so  ?  No.  And  I  don't  be 
lieve  God  is  good." 

"  Juan,  you  blaspheme  !  God  forgive  you. 
God  comfort  you." 

Juan  started  to  leave  the  room,  but  the 
priest  detained  him,  and  as  he  walked  with 
him  to  and  fro,  he  silently  prayed  for  the 
sorrow-stricken,  rebellious  man.  When  Juan 


JUAN  PICO  271 

at  last  turned  appealingly  to  him,  Father  Je 
rome  said : 

"  Jesus  Christ  died  for  you  and  for  me — and 
for  Anita.  If  He  lay  down  His  life  because 
of  His  great  love  for  us, — He,  who  was  with 
out  sin,  ought  we  not  to  trust  to  His  love,  to 
His  goodness  ?  " 

Juan  made  no  reply ;  he  sank  exhausted  into 
a  chair.  Father  Jerome  placed  his  hands  upon 
Juan's  shoulders : 

"  Stay  with  me,  at  least  for  a  time,  my  son. 
Give  yourself  and  your  services  to  God.  You 
can  do  this  wherever  you  may  go,  but  at  first, 
let  me  guide  you.  Henceforth  devote  your 
life  to  doing  good.  Nothing  else  will  bring 
peace  to  your  soul." 

****** 

Years  after,  a  famous  friar  came  up  from  the 
Spanish  speaking  countries  of  South  and  Central 
America  to  preach  at  mission  services  through 
out  California.  The  records  show  that  many 
were  joined  to  the  church,  and  that  wherever 
he  went  there  was  a  lasting  spiritual  uplifting 
of  the  people. 

As  he  stood  in  the  pulpit,  tall  and  erect,  he 


272  JUAN  PICO 

was  a  magnificent  figure.  Every  line  of  his 
attenuated  yet  muscular  shoulders,  of  his  long 
arms  and  of  his  large,  powerful  hands,  told  of 
a  strong  earthly  nature  trained  and  conse 
crated  to  the  work  of  doing  good. 

He  spoke  to  the  people  out  of  the  depths  of 
his  heart.  He  gave  them  the  message  that  he 
himself  had  received.  He  made  them  sick  of 
their  sins.  He  lifted  them  up  as  if  in  his 
arms. 

Juan  Pico  has  influenced  those  who  have 
listened  to  him  more  powerfully  than  most 
preachers  are  able  to  do.  And  in  the  arduous 
duties  of  his  calling  he  has  found  peace. 


